A Will and A Way
by rahleeyah
Summary: Before Ruth leaves London behind in the wake of Cotterdam, she has one final request to make of Zaf. When Harry learns the truth, his entire perception of her is blown wide open. As he struggles to come to terms with it, he'll be forced to face down some of his own demons, alongside hers. Now complete.
1. Chapter 1

**A/N: All right, here we go again! This one looks to be another epic tale, though it will be updated at a much more reasonable pace than my last offering. My thanks go out to Marty Swale, whose dedicated detective work and boundless enthusiasm made this fic possible.**

* * *

Ruth sat with her hands folded in her lap, her head resting against the cold unyielding stone of the barrier behind her, thinking hard. The sun was rising, its first rays breaking through the swirling fog, wan and pale. The morning moved inexorably on, minutes ticking, ticking, ticking slowly away, forcing her ever forward, away from her life, away from her home, away from everything she'd ever known.

Why had she done it? That was the question that would haunt her, all the rest of her days. Though not quite as empty as her colleagues believed it to be her life was not particularly impressive, and as much as it might mean to her personally her sacrifice wouldn't be worth all that much, in the grand scheme of things. It would keep Harry safe, keep him standing on the wall, keep him from going to prison or worse, from joining forces with the sort of men who believed that torture was a justifiable means to a justifiable end. _That_ was the why; she'd done it for Harry, to keep him safe, to keep him behind his desk, where he belonged. Mace had been trying for years to oust him, and the very thought of what might become of Section D without Harry chilled Ruth to the core. So no, she wasn't saving any lives, wasn't falling on her sword to stop a bomb going off or a pestilential plague being released on the tube. She was falling on her sword for the sake of one man, on the off-chance that he might manage to keep himself alive long enough to do the world some good.

It was a rather slim chance, she thought grimly. Harry had a nasty habit of getting himself into trouble. She worried about him constantly, always had done, really. Was he eating properly, was he drinking too much, was he getting enough rest, was he about to do something stupid and get himself shot again; the worry never ceased. It wasn't the first time in her life Ruth had worried herself senseless over someone she loved; she had rather a lot of practice at this.

There was another person she worried for, had worried for since she was fifteen years old. A person who needed her, a person she was leaving, all alone, forever, for Harry's sake. That was the real sacrifice, here; if it weren't for Will, her decision to go would have been so much simpler. Will needed her, always had done, but perhaps, in this moment, what Will needed more than her physical presence was to be kept safe, and it was only by her leaving she could protect him. If she stayed, even if she had found some way to keep Harry out of prison, they would never stop coming after her. They knew, now, the lengths Harry would go to for her sake, and if nothing else Cotterdam had painted a target on her chest. How much of a reprieve could she and Harry hope to enjoy, she wondered, before Mace and his ilk came gunning for her again? If she left, though, no one would ever find Will, no one would ever hurt him, and with Harry sat behind his desk, the country – and Will – would remain safe.

 _It had to be done,_ she told herself sternly, for the thousandth time.

Beside her, Zaf began to stir. Idly Ruth wondered if he had slept at all; she certainly hadn't. She was much too cold, inside and out, and much too scared.

Zaf would be leaving her soon, the boat would come, and that would be that. No going back. Harry would ring her family, and tell them that she'd died, and her mother would be, as ever, cruel and cold and hard. Her things would be carted off, back to Exeter to languish in her mother's attic or to be sold off, piece by piece at auction. Her home would be sold, too, the beautiful house with the stained glass door she'd bought in a fit of glee after Harry agreed to keep her on permanently. _God,_ she loved that house.

And Harry, too, damn him. She loved him, loved his pouty lips and his strong arms and his soft voice and his shockingly tender heart. Beneath the bluster and pomposity he had shown himself to be a truly gentle man. A gentle man, and a killer; _what a combination,_ she mused. She knew he had it in him, that latent propensity for violence; he had been a soldier, and she had read the reports of his early career. She had heard, too, how he had stabbed Mace in the club, slicing through flesh and tendon, cutting straight to the bone, never hesitating. He had ruined his marriage, carried on an affair with Juliet bloody Shaw, alienated his children and silenced dissenters with well-placed, quiet bullets. And still, for all that, she loved him.

It was for this man, and the hope he gave her, that Ruth Evershed was throwing her life away. _Don't let me down, Harry,_ she prayed. _Please, don't let me down._

Zaf was speaking to her, she realized, and she hastened to respond, their voices hushed and quiet in the preternatural stillness of the riverside in the early morning.

This was it, she knew. If she were going to make this request, make arrangements for Will and his safety, it had to be now. She had to speak, unburden herself to someone, now, before the opportunity was lost to her forever. Still, though, she hesitated.

Secrets, by nature, are meant to be kept, close to the chest, protected from those who might use them for ill. It was the nature of her job, keeping secrets, but it was also an instinct deeply ingrained in her very DNA. There was no chicken-or-egg philosophizing to be done here; her success in her job had not made her secretive, but rather it was her secretive nature that had made her successful in her job. For the last twenty-one years Ruth had kept her secret, had held her tongue, had woven a tapestry of lies, a soft, suffocating blanket in which she wrapped herself, cordoning her heart off from all those who dared try to draw too near. Harry had come too close, and had been burned for his efforts. How could the habit of a lifetime be shattered in a single moment? How could she even contemplate entrusting this piece of herself to Zaf, and not to Harry, Harry whom she loved, Harry whom she trusted above all others?

 _You'll do it because you have to, and that's that,_ she told herself.

"Zaf?" she asked quietly, her voice trembling. She hoped he'd blame that tremor on the cold, hoped he couldn't sense the fear rolling off of her in waves.

"Ruth?" he answered, turning his head to gaze at her with sorrow in his soft, dark eyes.

"I need a favor. I know what it is I'm about to ask, and I know it's…a lot, maybe too much, but I need your help, and I need you to please, _please_ keep Harry out of it."

It was unkind, she knew, to ask that Harry be kept in blissful ignorance, but how badly would it wound him, if he learned of her lies secondhand? If Harry was ever to learn the truth, she wanted him to hear it from her lips, and not from Zaf, however kind the young man might be.

"Ruth, I can't promise-" he started to protest.

"I'm not talking about a state secret, Zaf. This is personal, and Harry really doesn't need to know," she told him firmly.

There was a long moment of silence, while Zaf considered his answer and her heart thundered wildly in her chest. Even if Zaf agreed to keep his peace, there was no telling how genuine such a promise of confidence could be. He could well agree to it now, and rush straight to Harry with the truth the moment he left her side. It was a risk she was willing to take, however. It had to be done.

She took a deep breath.

"I need you to look after my son."

Zaf was a spy, and a damned fine one at that, and he kept his surprise well-hidden. Ruth saw it, though, saw the flicker of shock in the infinitesimal shifting of the muscles in his dear, sweet face. Of course he was surprised; Ruth had spent years honing her lies, practicing her deceit, using every one of her formidable talents to carefully shield Will from view. She felt a grim sort of pride, at Zaf's shock; it meant she'd done her job well.

"His name is William. He'll be at my house, just now, I don't think he knows I'm…dead, yet, but he will, and soon, and I…" Tears had started to gather at the corners of her eyes, but she scrubbed them away fiercely. Now was not the time for drowning in self-pity and recrimination. She had to make sure Will was taken care of; for the last twenty-one years, his wellbeing had been her only concern.

"I know you can't tell him the truth, but my mother will be horrible, and he'll need someone to help him through it."

Zaf sighed and ran his hands over his face. "I can't look after a child, Ruth-"

She laughed a bit, at that. It was a bitter sort of laugh, utterly devoid of joy or mirth. It wasn't Zaf's fault, that he'd misunderstood her request. Of course he'd assumed that Will was a child, in need of a guardian; he knew precisely how old she was, and she knew, too, that the moment she revealed the truth to him he would be feverishly counting backwards in his head until he reached the shocking conclusion. Ruth was used to that, that moment when whoever she was speaking to finally added it all up and gave her that slightly surprised, slightly appraising, slightly judgmental look. It was that look that had driven her to keep Will a secret from her colleagues; she was just so bloody tired of being misunderstood and misrepresented.

And yet she would gladly bear whatever judgment Zaf chose to pass on her, if it meant that her son would be safe and well.

"Will is twenty-one years old, Zaf, he hardly needs a nanny. He's about to start his last year at Oxford," she smiled a bit as she said that, pride suffusing her through and through. He was so bright, her Will, was well on his way to making a proper life for himself, despite the dubious way in which he'd entered this world. Every sacrifice, every sleepless night, every skipped meal and overdue bill and sneering, snide comment she had borne for his sake was worth it, in the end, as she watched her son spread his wings, and make his way in the world.

Zaf had added it all up, and quickly, too, if the questioning look he gave her was any indication. Ruth shook her head, cutting off his inquiries before he even made them. "I know what you want to ask me, and please don't take this the wrong way, but it really isn't any of your business. I only told you because I need to know that he won't be alone, once I'm gone. Can you promise me that, Zaf? Can you be…a friend to him, when he needs one?"

The request wasn't born solely out of convenience; yes, Zaf was the one sat beside her just now, but of every member of her team, he was also the one she most wanted looking after her Will. He was young and clever and kind and funny, and he and Will would get on well, she imagined. Jo was much too earnest and would smother him with her concern, and Adam would try too hard to be a father to the boy, and Malcolm wouldn't have any idea what to say, and Ros was a laughable suggestion, and Harry…

 _Oh, Harry._

"I will, Ruth. Whatever he needs, I'll make sure he's taken care of, I promise."

"Thank you, Zaf," she sighed, her heart feeling just a tiny bit lighter for his reassurances. "And you won't tell Harry?" she added.

There was a moment, just a moment, when the weight of a thousand questions never asked and never answered hung between them. Zaf knew what Harry meant to her, what she meant to him; they all bloody knew. Zaf knew what she was asking, and why. Zaf knew that she didn't want Harry's memories of her tainted by this, her darkest secret, didn't want Harry sitting at up at night, wondering how on earth her son had come into this world, how she'd wound up pregnant before her fifteenth birthday. Zaf might not have known the details of her relationship with Harry, but he knew enough.

"I promise, Ruth. I won't tell him."

She nodded gratefully. _Well, that's that, then_ , she thought.

* * *

 **A/N: Moving forward we'll be switching back and forth between "present day", and flashbacks, and hopefully all of your questions will be answered in good time.**


	2. Chapter 2

**A/N: I promised myself I wasn't going to do this, but the next few chapters are already written so I'm going to go ahead and post them. I can't guarantee that the daily updates will continue, but I'm having entirely too much fun to stop just now.**

* * *

Back at Thames House, Zaf sat staring blankly at his computer, Ruth's words rocketing around inside his head, drowning out every other thought. To say he'd been shocked by her request would be a colossal understatement; he was, quite simply, flabbergasted. It seemed to Zaf that once Ruth had spoken the words _my son_ aloud she became another person entirely. The slightly neurotic, slightly bumbling girl he thought he knew seemed to vanish in an instant, replaced by a world-weary woman, concerned only with the welfare of her child.

He had promised not to tell Harry, and he had every intention of keeping his promise. Zaf had never been a particularly apt student, when it came to computer hacking, and he knew accessing Ruth's personnel file was quite beyond him. Hacking the student database at Oxford, though, proved to be somewhat less of a challenge, and he set to with a will. It didn't take long to locate the boy's file; William James Evershed _,_ aged 21, studying History and Economics. There was a photograph to go with the file, and for quite some time Zaf simply sat, gazing at the young man's face. He was a handsome lad, with an earnest sort of face, dark hair a bit on the shaggy side, blue eyes so reminiscent of his mother's. The home address given in the file was Ruth's, and her name was down as his emergency contact. How could it be, he wondered, that she had managed to hide her entire life while working in a building full of spies?

Harry came storming onto the Grid, his face drawn and dark, and Zaf immediately exited out of the window he'd been using to access William's file. As the sound of Harry's heavy footfalls faded, Zaf decided he would pop round to Ruth's as soon as he could manage to leave the Grid without arousing suspicion. He was deeply curious about the boy, and itching to meet him, but worry festered in the back of his mind. What was he supposed to tell William about his mother? How could he ever even begin to explain the nightmare that was Cotterdam?

And how long could he really expect to keep all this a secret from Harry?

Zaf had no idea, really, and so he sat, and fretted, and watched the click tick slowly on.

* * *

Ruth was gone, but Harry couldn't help but feel as if _he_ were the one adrift, floating on a sea of loneliness and self-recrimination. He should have done more, should have listened to her, should have protected her, but instead he'd hesitated, and Ruth had paid the price with her life. She was gone, God only knew where, never to be seen or heard from again, and she'd done it all for him, that silly, stubborn mule. What was he supposed to do without her? Not only was she the finest analyst he'd ever had the pleasure of working with, but she had over time wormed her way into his heart, tattered though it might have been. When he needed comfort, guidance, reassurance, support, it was Ruth he turned to, Ruth who could, with no more than a glance, shore up his resolve and buoy his floundering heart. How could he find the strength to carry on, without her there beside him?

There were all sorts of niceties to be observed, after one of their own died, the first among them being the phone calls to relatives. As far as family went, Ruth only had her mother and stepfather, and Harry had rung them dutifully the moment he returned to the Grid. Elizabeth, her mother, had stopped short of uttering the words _good riddance,_ upon learning of her daughter's death, but the sentiment had been there, just the same. It was appalling, really, how callous she had been, and Harry only barely managed to keep from giving her a piece of his mind. To keep from shouting down the line in defense of Ruth's goodness, her bravery, her sheer personal radiance. How anyone could feel so little upon learning of the death of their child bewildered Harry; personally, he knew that if he were ever to receive such a call about Catherine or Graham, he'd be completely inconsolable.

It did explain some things to his mind, though, explained why Ruth never spoke about her family and never went home at the holidays and only seemed to have her little cats for company. And he couldn't help but think how unfair it was, how wrong, that someone as lovely as Ruth could be left all alone, treated so unkindly by the very people who were supposed to love and support her no matter what. Likely there was some horrible story there, something that explained her mother's coldness and Peter Haig's suicide and Ruth's own rather melancholic nature, but Harry had never asked, and now it was too late. He would never know, now. There were a million questions he'd never had the chance to ask, and now he would spend the rest of his life wondering if he'd ever really known her at all.

Not that it mattered, really. There was no secret she could have hidden from him that could possibly make him love her any less. And yes, he loved her, knew he loved her, had known for months for now, and yet he'd never made the time to tell her. He'd tried to, in the early morning by the river's edge, but she'd stopped him short. Though he hated to lose her without having the chance to speak the words aloud, he understood why she had interrupted him. Her leaving was hard enough to bear; how much worse would it have been, if they'd finally revealed their feelings to one another, only to be ripped apart? The kiss they shared would have to be enough to warm him through all the cold nights to come.

Ordinarily, upon losing a colleague, he would have thrown himself into his work. Drown himself in details until he could go home and drown himself in scotch, but somehow, it just wasn't working today. There was little enough for him to do at the moment, no major catastrophes in the offing. Out on the Grid things were chugging right along with no help from him. In a rather uncharacteristic display of studiousness Zaf was working diligently away at his computer; Jo was glaring daggers at Ros behind her back; Adam was nowhere to be found; and Ros was looking about as close to contrite as Harry was ever like to see her, which is to say, not very contrite at all. He couldn't bear the thought of going out there and speaking to them just now, knowing that they all had their suppositions about his connection to Ruth, and knowing too that her actions in the wake of Cotterdam had only served to solidify those assumptions. Did any of them realize, he wondered, that he and Ruth had only shared the one dinner date before their gossiping had sent her running from him? Did any of them know he'd only kissed her twice, that night when he walked her to her door after dinner and this morning, when he'd said good-bye to her forever? Did they realize it was all their bloody fault?

 _You're doing no one any good here,_ he told himself sternly, and so he stood, gathered up his coat, and walked off the Grid without speaking a word to anyone.

* * *

He had promised her he'd look after her cats, and so he set off to her house upon leaving the Grid behind. Section X would go over her belongings with a fine-toothed comb, looking for evidence of her treachery, and when they found none, they would turn the lot over to Elizabeth. Or perhaps not; perhaps Ruth had possessed the presence of mind to write a will. He rather hoped she had done; he got the feeling, from speaking to Elizabeth, that Ruth's mother was all but salivating over the potential windfall she'd get from selling Ruth's house, and he would quite like to see the woman thwarted in that attempt.

Either way, he decided as he drove that he would gather a few of her things, just in case. Section X wouldn't come around until tomorrow at the earliest, and that left him plenty of time to collect the cats and a few of her books and anything else he thought she might like to have, should she ever return to him one day. He tried not to think about that possibility too much; he knew better than to cling to such a hope.

It was with a heavy heart that Harry walked through her front door; the lock had been alarmingly easy to pick, and the cats promptly began to mewl at him in a desperate bid to earn themselves an early supper. It was such a lovely little house, quirky and a bit jumbled and so very, very _Ruth._ Of course she'd picked this house, with its crumbling foundation and its bright panes of stained glass set in the front door and its overgrown hedges and labyrinthine floor plan. Or course she had.

The scent of her enveloped him as he stepped further into her home. Everywhere he turned his senses were assaulted by her, and so in a desperate gambit to protect the tattered shreds of his heart, he set about gathering up her things as quickly as he could. _Get in, and get out,_ he told himself. It was easy enough to locate her bedroom; the door was standing open, and there were books scattered in every corner. Her favorite scarf, the ring she'd worn on their dinner date, a rather ridiculous looking blanket he could only assume she'd knitted herself; all these things went into a battered old hold-all he'd found in a cupboard. He battled with himself for a moment about whether or not he ought to check under her bed to see if she had secreted away a few mementos down there; he'd seen no photographs anywhere else in the room, and he assumed she must have some, somewhere. Eventually he made up his mind, and lay down on his stomach, rooting around under the bed until he found what he was after. There was indeed a small box hidden there, but it was small enough to fit in the holdall, and so he packed it away without looking inside.

Next came her books. If he could have managed it without drawing suspicion he would have called for removal men, and taken the lot of them. How could he possibly choose which volumes to keep, when he knew for a fact that she loved every single one of them? He lingered over the books for a long time, perusing the titles, selecting a few of the more well-worn tomes and tucking them gently inside the holdall. _Amores_ was sitting on the little table beside her bed, and he very nearly wept to see it there, to see a little scrap of paper sticking out to mark her page. He was definitely taking that one.

At this point the bag was full, and Harry could delay no longer. He wondered if perhaps he ought to explore the rest of the house, but decided it against it. She would have kept the things most precious to her in the rooms she used most often, her bedroom and the kitchen and the sitting room. The rest of the house was likely full rubbish, and he needed to stop wasting time. He couldn't say for sure if he was being watched, or if the house was, and it wouldn't do to be caught nicking a bagful of her belongings.

He made his way back downstairs, where the cats were sniffing suspiciously around the two little carriers he'd found in the same cupboard with the holdall. _Right,_ he thought, dropping the bag and making his way into the kitchen in search of their food. He'd pack up their things, wrangle them into the carriers, and cart the lot outside, and that would be that.

As he was rummaging around the kitchen, he heard the sound of the front door opening, and immediately froze, all his instincts kicking in at once. His every sense seemed heightened as he stood perfectly still; he could feel the brush of the dusty kitchen air against his skin, could easily identify the lingering scent of Ruth's perfume, could hear quite clearly the sound of the door closing, the lock turning. His mind raced as he pondered his options; whoever had come into this house had no right to be there, though the same could be said of Harry himself. The holdall and the cat-carriers were in the front hall, and he knew their presence would give him away. He only had seconds to act-

"I'm all right mate, honest." Harry's shoulders relaxed infinitesimally. Not police then, nor Section X; the voice belonged to a young man, a young man who, based on the way he was slurring his words, was completely pissed.

"I took a taxi, I've just got to mum's. I'll sleep here; my Gran will come round in the morning, and you know what she's like. I want to be here when she gets here."

Harry listened, perplexed, to the shuffling sounds coming from the sitting room. It sounded as if the young man was settling himself on the sofa. _What fresh hell is this?_

"Yeah, thanks, mate. I will. Night."

Silence, again.

What to do now? He wondered. He needed to get the cats, get the bag, and get the hell out of here, but to do that, he'd have to cross paths with the mystery guest on Ruth's sofa. Was he just some drunk kid, wandering into the wrong house? Or something else? Could it be that it was all just an act, meant to lure Harry into a false sense of security before some nefarious trap could be sprung?

 _Only one way to find out,_ Harry thought grimly. He squared his shoulders, and made his way out of the kitchen on silent feet. When he reached the sitting room he stopped in the doorway, taking in the sight before of him.

The young man was sprawled on the sofa, a blanket draped rather haphazardly across his lanky frame. He had dark, shaggy hair and the sort of fine features that reminded Harry forcefully of the poster-boys from the celebrity rags Catherine used to hide under her mattress as a teenager. He was still wearing his shoes.

 _Poor kid,_ Harry thought, watching as the cats curled up on top of the boy. He looked to be in his early twenties, and he was in for a very bad night.

As stealthily as he could manage Harry crept up on the intruder, and then quickly covered the boy's mouth with one broad hand.

"Don't move," he all but hissed in his most dangerous voice.

The young man's eyes flew open, wide with terror, and Harry very nearly shouted in alarm. He knew those eyes; he'd recognize them anywhere. He snatched his hand back as if he'd been burned.

 _I've just got to mum's…Gran will come round in the morning…_

 _Jesus Christ._

"Who the bloody hell are you?" the young man shouted, scrambling into a sitting position, his huge, brilliantly blue eyes slightly unfocused.

"My name is Harry Pearce. Who the bloody hell are you?" Harry fired back, immediately kicking himself for giving the boy his real name. Just now, Harry's mind was awhirl with questions and dreadful suppositions, and he had spoken without considering the consequences.

 _He's not,_ Harry thought in a daze. _He can't be._

"What the hell are you doing in my mum's house?" the boy demanded angrily. In his haste he had dislodged the cats, who were curling themselves around his feet. Harry tried not to read too much into that; those cats would show affection to anyone, if they thought it might get them fed quicker.

 _My mum's house._ Harry sat down heavily in the nearest armchair. He wasn't sure his legs would support him, just now.

"Seriously, mate, get out! I'll call the cops." The boy's voice was shaking, not that Harry could blame him. Harry's own hands were trembling.

"What's her name?" Harry asked him. In his heart, Harry feared the answer to the question, but he had to know. _He's much too old, he couldn't possibly be…_

"What?" The boy was staring at him like he was a madman. Harry _felt_ like he was a madman, felt the very fabric of reality rippling around him. It couldn't possibly be true, he told himself. There had to be some other explanation; Harry had read Ruth's personnel file cover to cover, had worked with her for years, had bloody well fallen in love with her, and through all of that, she'd never once mentioned having a son.

 _This isn't happening._

"Your mum," Harry said, articulating each syllable as clearly as he could. "What's your mum's name?"

"Ruth. Ruth Evershed. Hang on a minute," the boy scrubbed at his face with his hands and gave his head a little shake as if to dispel the cobwebs left behind by drink. "Did you say your name's Harry? Are you _the_ Harry, then?"

"I need a drink," Harry muttered, and with that he shambled off toward the kitchen.


	3. Chapter 3

**A/N: This chapter is a flashback, to the night of Harry and Ruth's dinner date. There will be more chapters like this, scattered throughout the story. All dates have been taken from Harry's Diary.**

* * *

 _14 July, 2006_

"Mum?" she heard Will calling from downstairs. "Are you home?"

"I'm up here, love!" she shouted back, fidgeting nervously with her hair as she stood gazing despondently at her reflection in the little mirror above her dresser. For the last half hour she'd been trying valiantly to prepare for her upcoming dinner date with Harry, but with each passing moment her fears and her doubts only mounted, growing precipitously until she was almost paralyzed by uncertainty.

So much seemed to be riding on this night. For over a year now she and Harry had been doing this strange dance, circling ever closer to one another, and no matter how she tried, she found she could no longer ignore the way her heart longed for him. Longed to share her time with him, to feel the brush of his hands against her skin, to know what it might be like to be sheltered within the circle of his arms. She knew it was rash, beyond foolish, to start up an affair with the boss, but Harry was so much _more_ than that; he wasn't just her boss, he was brave and strong and good and kind, and it had been so long since anyone had taken notice of her, since anyone had looked at her the way he did, in a way that set her very soul to singing.

People didn't take notice of Ruth Evershed, as a rule, but this was by design. Ruth had long ago grown tired of constantly having to explain herself, defending herself against the endless parade of questions and raised eyebrows her personal circumstances always seemed to inspire. It was easier not to be drawn into the conversation at all, and so she had allowed herself to become the sort of person that no one seemed to see. It was easier that way, to keep her secrets to herself, and easier too, to live her quiet life and look after her son and not try to balance the weight of a personal relationship on top of her duties as a single mother. When Will was younger every day had been a struggle, to keep the bills paid and food on the table, and she never had the time, or the energy, or the money to spend on making herself look nice or going out on the town. Everything she had she'd poured into caring for her son, to helping him with homework and ferrying him to football matches, to healing his hurts and fighting the monsters lurking under his bed.

There had been a few times, through the years, when she thought she might have found someone she could come to care about, someone who could handle the weight of her past and the responsibility of raising someone else's child. There was Mark, the _big swinging dick_ (just the thought of those words still brought a sad smile to her face, as she remembered Danny), and Paul, the history teacher, but neither relationship had lasted, and she had given up hope. She'd come to accept it, that she simply wasn't meant to share her life with someone in that way. Ruth quite liked her own company, and she'd made a comfortable life for herself here in London.

And then Harry came along, and shattered every notion she'd had of living a solitary life. Harry, who could set her heart to racing with just one look. Harry, who haunted her dreams.

It was all so surreal, somehow, this notion that he could possibly feel the same sort of affection for her that she harbored for him. His invitation to dinner had been downright adorable, and he'd been confident enough to book a table in advance; surely that boded well, for whatever they might be together?

 _And what happens when you cock it all up, Ruth? What happens when he finds out that you hacked the MI-5 servers to keep Will hidden from him? What happens when he finds out you've been lying to him for the last three years? What happens when he finds out where Will came from?_

More than anything, her nerves came not so much from the fear that the date would not go well, but from the fear that the date would go _too_ well, that she and Harry might draw _too_ close, and he might finally learn the depth of her deception. Not only could she lose her job for what she'd done, in keeping Will a secret, she might well go to prison for the hacking. There was a part of her that longed to tell him the truth, to unburden herself to him completely, damn the consequences, and that terrified her, too. One reckless word might bind them closer together, or shatter the life she'd built for herself, and Ruth felt herself balanced on the edge of a knife, with no inkling of which way she might fall.

"Christ, what happened here?" Will asked with a cheeky grin, surveying the chaos from her bedroom doorway.

She'd tried on every outfit she owned, some of them twice, and had somehow wound up in an ankle length skirt and a frumpy blazer. The entire contents of her wardrobe were scattered all around her, her jewelry in a pile on the dresser top in front of her. Ruth had never paid a great deal of attention to her clothes, and bought most of them secondhand. Between her mortgage and Will's tuition at Oxford there wasn't a lot of her government salary left over to spend on fancy clothes but then there never had been. It had never really bothered her before, but now she couldn't help but feel insecure about going out for a meal with Harry, about sitting across the table from him; no doubt he'd be as impeccable as always in his Saville Row suit. No matter what she tried, none of her clothes seemed quite right, and she was rapidly running out of time to make her decision.

"Are you going somewhere?" Will asked as he took in the sight of her, standing there still clutching her hairbrush in a shaking hand.

Ruth had hoped to escape off to dinner before he came home, thus avoiding the crippling awkwardness of this conversation. Will had gone out to meet some friends, and he wasn't due back until much later. She'd written a little note for him and everything, left it on the kitchen table along with instructions for heating up the casserole in the fridge. Apparently he'd decided to come home a bit early, and for once she was cursing the fact that her son had inherited her own somewhat introverted nature.

"I have plans for dinner," she mumbled. In the mirror she watched as a slow, knowing grin spread across her son's face, and smiled despite her own reservations. He was such a _good_ boy, her Will, had such a kind heart and such a warmth of spirit. It had been hard, moving out here to London and starting a new job and sending her boy off to Oxford all at once, but the time he'd spent away from her over the last three years only made her more grateful for breaks like these, when he was back in her home and underfoot where he belonged.

"What's his name, then?" Will asked slyly, crossing his arms over his chest as he slumped against the doorframe.

For a moment Ruth deliberated with herself about just how much she ought to tell him. He knew they'd moved to London because she'd been offered a new job, but she'd told him she was working for the Department for Environment, Food and Rural Affairs. For so long she and Will had only had each other, and she didn't want him to worry about her. Mostly her work kept her safe behind a desk, though there had been a few moments over the years when she'd been forced out into the field, into danger, with very mixed results. Better to let him think her boring, she'd told herself, than to have him know the truth.

It wasn't as if she needed to tell him everything about Harry, she thought as she chewed on her lip. Once he caught the scent of something interesting he was like a dog with a bone, gnawing away until he got what he wanted. He would tease her about this mercilessly, she knew; perhaps it would be better to give him a little something now, and hope that he'd forget, rather than spend the next few weeks dodging questions about it.

"His name is Harry," she said, hating the way she blushed as she spoke his name aloud. _Pull yourself together, Evershed,_ she told herself sternly.

"Wait, seriously?" Will asked, surprise written all over his face. "I was just trying to wind you up. Do you seriously have a date tonight?"

"Seriously," Ruth told him, still blushing.

"You haven't been on a date since I was about twelve!" he protested.

That wasn't entirely accurate; Ruth had been out more recently than that. In fact, she'd be on exactly one date, since moving to London. Two, if she counted the dinner she'd shared with Andrew Forestall. Considering that dinner ended up with her spending several hours tied to his banister next to his dead body, she wasn't entirely sure she should include it on the list.

"What's he like, then?" Will asked. He genuinely wanted to know; she could see the sincerity written all over his face. He was such a sweet boy, her Will, and she regarded him fondly as she answered.

"He's a good man," she said. How much more than that could she give him? How could she begin to explain everything she knew about Harry, everything she felt for him, without going into detail about everything they'd been through together? She wanted to tell Will that Harry was brave, that he was selfless, that he had dedicated his life to serving his country, but she couldn't tell him those things without explaining _how_ she knew. How she'd seen him make impossible decisions, lead his team through chaos, how he'd held her after Danny died and they'd wheeled his body away from her. She couldn't tell him about that night on the bus, or the moment they'd shared after she'd broken Angela Wells, or any of it.

 _One of these days, I'm going to have to tell him the truth,_ she thought. _But not now. Not tonight._

"He's actually my boss," she admitted, throwing out a piece of truth and hoping it would be enough.

Will whistled at that. "Good for you, mum. When are you supposed to meet him?"

"He's got a table booked for eight."

"So, ten minutes from now?" Will asked, raising an eyebrow at her. It was something of a running joke between them; Ruth was always late, while her son was habitually early, and he was forever begging her to hurry up.

"Shit!" she swore. There was no time left to change her clothes again, and she'd have to go as she was. She dropped her hairbrush with a clatter and all but ran from the room, stopping only long enough to drop a kiss on his cheek.

"Have fun tonight!" he called after her, laughing.

* * *

Over the course of their dinner Ruth's worst fears were realized; Harry was more lovely than she had ever dreamed, and she found herself praying the night would never end. It was rare for her to find a man as well-read as she, one who could quote Shakespeare and Dostoevsky with equal ease, and rarer still to find one who smiled at her the way he did, his eyes full of warmth and fondness, just for her. They'd laughed a bit, and touched only briefly on the horrors of their job, and with each passing second she found herself falling that little bit more in love with him. She _wanted_ this, wanted _him_ so badly that the yearning in her heart became almost a physical ache.

He insisted on paying, and likewise insisted on driving her home after, and she was powerless to resist him, to resist the temptation of spending a few more minutes in his company. She was warm and comfortable inside his car, and there was classical music pouring softly out of the radio, her heart thrumming in time to the gentle strings. She wanted to reach out, and rest her hand on his thigh. She wanted to touch him now, and when they reached her house, she very much wanted to ask him to come inside.

And therein lay her problem; she couldn't ask Harry to come in, knowing that Will was at that very moment most likely sprawled across the sofa watching something mindless and awful on the telly. How could she invite Harry in, let him think there was a chance for something more than one chaste good-night kiss in his future, only to have him come face to face with her son, the son he didn't even know existed?

 _Well, you've really gone and done it this time, haven't you?_ she thought morosely as Harry pulled the car to a stop outside her house. She'd finally found a man she wanted, a man who might be able to cope with her heavy past, and he was the one man she could never speak the truth to.

"Let me walk you to the door," he murmured, and before she could protest he was out of the car, and walking around to her side.

He opened the door for her, and offered her his hand to help her to her feet, but he did not let go once she was out of the car. As they walked he held her hand in his own, her heart thundering in her chest just from that simple touch. His skin was warm and soft, his hand broad and strong, and she wanted nothing more than to hold on to him forever.

"I had a really good time tonight," she told him shyly as they stood together on her doorstep, their fingers still intertwined. Ruth couldn't quite bring herself to look at him just now; it was overwhelming, sometimes, looking into those soft brown eyes and seeing everything she felt reflected back at her a hundredfold.

"So did I," he told her, his voice low and warm. Just the sound of that voice was enough to make her go weak in the knees, and she felt herself trembling as she stood before him, fear and need and desperate longing swirling inside her. "I'd like to take you out again…if you'd like to, of course."

"Harry," she breathed, knowing that she ought to say no, turn him down now, before she got so tangled up in him that she'd never find her way out again. _You can't, you know you can't, it's just a dream, let it go,_ a sad little voice whispered in her ear.

Harry reached out, and brushed her hair back from her face, his hand running gently down the side of her cheek and turning her to face him.

"You don't have to decide tonight," he told her softly. There was no help for it now; he'd brought her gaze to his face, and she was lost in him.

Almost before she realized it she was kissing him, her arms flung round his neck and his own holding her close, nestling her in tight against the solid heat of him. She knew they could go no further than this, not tonight, and so she decided to make the most of it, and gave into the gentle insistence of his tongue brushing against the tight seam of her lips. For a few moments on a fragrant summer night she allowed herself to indulge the desires of her heart, and she kissed him with everything she had.

He pulled away first, brushing her lips one last time before loosening his grip somewhat, allowing her room to breathe. There was a happy, slightly dazed sort of look on his face, as if he simply couldn't believe his luck, and Ruth imagined that she wore a similar expression. If it hadn't been for Will, she would have invited Harry in, and shagged him senseless right then and there, consequences be damned.

But Will was there, just on the other side of the door, and like she had done every day for the last twenty-one years, Ruth put him first.

"Good night, Harry," she murmured.

"Good night, Ruth," he answered, stealing one last, brief kiss before making his way back down her front walk to his car. She watched him go, the elation his touch had inspired giving way to sorrow and doubt and once more. With a sigh she turned, and stepped inside her house.


	4. Chapter 4

_Present day_

"Did you say your name's Harry? Are you _the_ Harry, then?"

"I need a drink," Harry muttered, and with that he shambled off toward the kitchen.

* * *

The young man followed Harry into the kitchen, swearing as he stumbled a bit and walked directly into the doorjamb. He really was rather drunk. Not that Harry could blame him; if he was who he said he was, then he'd just learned his mother was dead. Harry had reacted in much the same way, when he'd received the news about his own mother's passing. Actually, he realized as he rummaged around in Ruth's liquor cabinet, this young man looked to be about the same age as Harry had been at that time. _It's a funny old world,_ he thought, straightening up with a bottle of single malt in hand.

"Are you going to tell me what the hell you're doing in my mum's house?" the young man asked him, looking at him through bleary eyes. Eyes as blue and deep and bright as Ruth's; it was the strangest thing, seeing those eyes staring out at him from a completely different face.

"What's your name?" Harry asked as he poured himself a glass.

"Will," came the answer.

"I'd offer you a drink, Will, but-"

"But that's my mum's whiskey you're drinking, mate, and it's not yours to offer. I'll have some tea." All things considered, Harry supposed that young Will had every right to be surly with him just now, and so he held back his sharp retort.

Will set about starting the kettle, his movements shaky and unsteady while Harry crossed the kitchen and plopped down at the table, cradling his glass in his own trembling hands. How could it be, he wondered, that Ruth could have kept such a secret for so long? There was no mention of the boy in her personnel file, not in the "family" section of her original application or in Section X's detailed report on her background. How could they have missed this? Will would have been a teenager when she started work with 5; how could she have hidden a secret this big?

And _why_ would she have hidden it? He'd known Ruth for years, now, had thought they were rather close, and yet she'd never spoken a word about it. In all the time they'd known one another, all the days and all the nights they'd spent in close contact, sharing all the little pieces of themselves, she'd made it clear there was no one waiting for her at home, no family, precious few friends. She knew Harry had children of his own; perhaps, if she'd shared this part of her life with him, it could have strengthened the bond between them, brought them even closer together. And yet, she hadn't, and that thought rankled.

Although, somewhere in the darkest corner of his heart, he thought he could understand her reticence. The boy looked to be in his early twenties, and Ruth had just turned thirty-six a few months ago; Harry had added it all up rather quickly, and reached the inevitable conclusion. Ruth had had a child, when she was so young as to be considered a child herself. How did it happen? Did he even want to know?

"Listen, mate-" Will started to speak once his tea was ready, taking a long sip as if to fortify himself.

"She never told me about you," Harry interrupted, leaning back in his chair with a heavy sigh. "I spoke to your grandmother this afternoon, and I decided it might be best to rescue a few of…your mother's belongings, before Elizabeth came to pick them over. And I…I promised Ruth I'd look after her cats."

For a moment he was frightfully worried that Will was going to burst into tears. His eyes were glassy, the look on his face nearly as sad as the one Ruth had worn just this morning. _He thinks she's dead,_ Harry reminded himself glumly as he stared at the boy. _Oh, Christ, what do I tell him?_

"You spoke to her? Before she…" Will swayed dangerously for a moment, unable to finish the sentence, unable to speak the words aloud.

"Why don't you have a seat, lad?" Harry suggested as kindly as he could. Frankly, Harry was worried his young companion was about to pass out on his feet, and Harry was in no fit state to catch him before he hurt himself.

Everything about this moment was so bloody surreal; Harry had often imagined what it might be like, walking into Ruth's home for the first time, but he had never imagined it quite like this. Had never imagined her son, drunk and grieving, had never imagined himself, torn between telling the truth and retreating once more into lies. For her own safety it was imperative that everyone believed Ruth to be dead, and before this moment, "everyone" had included her family. He wasn't so sure that it did, any more. Could he bear to do that to Will? Could he bear to leave this young man in ignorance, believing that his mother was lost to him forever, believing himself to be utterly alone in the world?

"Did she tell you about me?" Harry asked. What he really wanted to know was if Ruth had ever told her son the truth about her work. Will had recognized his name, before, and so Harry thought this was as good a place as any to start.

Will nodded, staring forlornly into his tea. "A few weeks ago, she was all excited about going out on a date with some bloke called Harry. I don't think I've ever seen her that anxious, and that's saying something." There was something unbearably broken in Will's voice, something that tore at Harry's heartstrings. Could he stand to leave this boy alone in his misery?

Harry grunted a bit at Will's last comment; she'd always been rather tightly wound, his Ruth. Will's confession had cut him to the quick, though he dare not let his emotions show, not even for a second. She'd been excited about their date, and anxious, too; what sort of hopes had she harbored for them, before her fear had pushed her away? Were they anything like the hopes he'd carried in his own heart?

"She said you were her boss, and that's why she was so anxious," at this Will finally looked up from his tea, giving Harry a searching sort of look. He was a bright young man, despite the fact that he was drunk at the moment, and he'd put it together right away. Harry was a bit impressed, actually. "She loved her job. I can't imagine why, DEFRA always sounded so bloody boring to me."

Another sigh very nearly escaped Harry's lips at that, but he just barely managed to contain it. So she hadn't told him the truth then, or at least not all of it. Harry could work with this, though, could tell the boy enough to set his mind at rest. The question remained; _should_ he? What would Will do, if he knew his mother was still alive? There was no doubt in Harry's mind that, whatever he chose to say now, he'd be keeping an eye on young Will. There wasn't anyone else to do it.

Unless…the boy had to have a father, out there somewhere. Were they close? Who was this shadowy man from Ruth's past, and would he come out of the woodwork now, to look after his son? Harry clenched his hands into fists, resting on his knees under the table, as anger and jealousy wound together and roared to a crescendo in his mind. What sort of man was he, Will's father, this man who had left Ruth pregnant at such an early age? Did he even really want to know?

"It has its moments," Harry said blandly. "Listen, Will, there's something you ought to know."

Across the table Will was staring at him in a manner Harry found most disconcerting, but he took a deep breath and soldiered on. "Ruth isn't dead."

There, he'd said it, and let the chips fall where they may.

For a moment, there was only silence, and then Will scrambled to his feet, only barely making it to the sink before he was rather noisily sick. It was to be expected, really; the boy had been through rather a lot today.

Harry sat at the table, feeling rather awkward as he waited for it to pass. Whatever comfort he might be able to offer would likely not be welcome, just now, and so he did not speak. After a while Will brought himself back under control, rinsing his mouth out with water before turning back to Harry, his eyes much clearer than they had been before.

"Where is she?" he asked in a broken little voice. "Is she all right?"

"I don't know where she is, but she's safe, and that's what matters." _Or at least, that's what I keep telling myself._

"This doesn't make any sense," Will protested weakly, running his fingers through his messy hair. He really was a handsome lad, Ruth's son, Harry thought as he looked at him. Was his father handsome, too? Handsome, and young, and a better match for Ruth than he could ever hope to be? The jealousy was back, as Harry thought about this man who had known Ruth in a way he'd only dreamed about, this man who'd fathered her child and bound himself to her in a way Harry would never have the chance to.

"She witnessed a crime, a few days ago, and she's had to leave the country for her own protection. And for yours; we're talking about some very bad people, people who wouldn't hesitate to hurt you in order to get to her." At first Harry had only said the words in an effort to reassure Will, but as he spoke he realized that there probably was a grain of truth to them. Ruth had known that Mace would stop at nothing to get his way; likely she'd realized that her son was in danger, too. Perhaps her sacrifice hadn't been just for Harry's sake, after all, but that didn't make it easier to bear.

"How long will she be gone?" Will asked, a desperate hope shining in his eyes. Harry recognized that hope, felt it burgeoning in his own chest, but nearly thirty years of service to his country had taught him the terrible folly of clinging to such a hope.

"For a very long time," Harry said quietly, staring down at his hands now clasped together on the tabletop. "Maybe forever."

It was Will's turn to sigh. "That's so like her," he said, a gruff sort of affection in his voice. "She's always sticking her nose where it doesn't belong. She worries too much about people."

Privately, Harry agreed with that assessment, however much he might wish to defend her just now.

"You said you spoke to my Gran, today?" Will asked him, crossing the kitchen to sit down once more on the other side of the table.

Harry nodded. "It's part of my job."

"She's a mad old cow," Will told him, a bitter edge to his voice.

Harry very nearly chuckled. _We're in agreement on that._ "It wasn't a particularly pleasant conversation."

"She's threatening to sell the house, says it ought to be hers." As Harry looked at him, he couldn't help but think how _young_ he looked, how frightened, how uncertain, and his heart went out to the boy. Whatever the circumstances of his birth he was Ruth's son, and Harry was determined to help him, in any way he could.

"Is it? Hers, I mean."

Will shook his head. "No way. Mum has a will, she showed me where she kept it. Everything's supposed to go to me. Not that I need a house, really, I'm due back at Oxford in a month."

 _Christ,_ he thought, _she must be so bloody proud of him._ They'd discussed it, Harry and Ruth, the fact that they'd both attended Oxford, albeit many years apart. And now, apparently, so did her son. Harry wondered briefly if the boy had inherited his mother's staggering intellect, along with her startlingly blue eyes. If he had, he'd be most fortunate indeed.

"It might be good for you to have a place to come back to, at the holidays," Harry suggested, realizing too late that perhaps that wasn't the case at all. What would be waiting here for the lad, should he return on break? An empty, somewhat dilapidated house, a house that still smelled faintly of her, with nothing but loneliness and bitter memories to greet him? It wasn't a particularly festive scene, and Harry immediately regretted bringing it up.

Will gave him a derisive little snort. "I don't think so, mate. I can't afford to keep it up, anyway."

"Why don't I buy it from you?" Harry asked. Will's eyebrow shot up into his artfully tousled hairline, and Harry hastened to explain. "The Department keeps several flats and small houses on tap, for visiting dignitaries and the like," he lied smoothly. "We send a service round to clean them all, whether they're in use or not. The house would be looked after, and you'd have a place to stay, when you needed it. And when you've finished at Oxford, you could have it back, if you like." With Malcolm's help he imagined it would be easy enough to add this place to the safe house registry without kicking up a fuss. And that way, should Ruth ever make her way home, this house she loved so much would still be ready and waiting for her. _Don't think like that now, you'll go mad wishing._

"And why should I trust you, mate?" Will asked, fixing him with a familiar, piercing gaze, one Harry knew all too well. It was a good question, and one Harry couldn't really answer. He could only imagine how this must look to Will, who'd come home to find a stranger ransacking his mother's house.

"A little mistrust is a good thing, Will, it'll keep you safe," Harry told him. "We can have a solicitor draw up a contract, put the whole thing in writing, if you like." There was a man called Paul Shaefer who owed Harry a rather large favor; perhaps the time had come to settle that particular tab. Harry was happy to do it, if it would put Will's mind at rest.

"I'll need a solicitor anyway, to help me sort out her will. Christ, I've got so much to do. I've never planned a funeral before. And Gran will be no help, miserable bitch."

After the conversation he'd had with the woman, Harry couldn't blame him, for speaking so ill of his grandmother. There were a thousand questions he wanted to ask, about how old Will was exactly and why Elizabeth was so bloody awful (and where the hell Will's father was), but he imagined this wasn't the best moment. The boy was hurting, and Harry thought it might be best to proceed with tact, rather than push too far too fast. That was a familiar dance, one he'd learned well over his acquaintance with Ruth.

Before Harry could say anything else, he once more heard the sound of the front door opening.

"Christ, what now?" Will moaned, rubbing his hands over his face again.

Harry lifted his hand, gesturing for the boy to be quiet, and then rose to his feet, crossing the kitchen as silently as he could. Once again his entire body seemed to vibrate with nerves as he wondered who _else_ might be trying to pay a visit to Ruth's home this evening. _Surely there's not another one?_ he thought, horrified.

Harry leaned around the kitchen doorway, and found himself face-to-face with Zafar bloody Younis, of all people.

"Shit," Zaf said.

"Mr. Younis," Harry growled.


	5. Chapter 5

A thousand possible reasons for Zaf's sudden appearance in Ruth's home wove their way through Harry's mind, each more improbable than the last. The surest way to find the truth, Harry knew, would simply be to sit back and stare at young Mr. Younis until his own conscience forced him to explain himself. That particular method would take time, however, and there was Will to consider; whatever Zaf's motives for coming here tonight, Harry dearly wished to keep him away from Will. Ruth had kept the boy a secret for so long; Harry did not want to be party to a betrayal of her confidences.

"Is he here?" Zaf asked quietly, and all of Harry's previous suppositions went flying out the window.

"Excuse me?" Harry asked in disbelief. _How could Zaf know? Did she tell him? Why would she tell him and not me?_

"Jesus, not another one!" Will had risen from the table and come to stand behind them. "Who are you, then?" he demanded.

Harry watched Zaf's face closely; the young spook didn't seem at all surprised by Will's presence in the house, and that only served to solidify Harry's assumptions, and increase his doubts.

 _Oh Ruth, my Ruth, did I ever know you at all?_

"This is Zaf," Harry said quietly. He was working without a net here, and so had decided against creating a legend for Zaf on the spot. He'd already revealed his own name; the damage had already been done. "He works with us as well."

"Listen, not that I'm not…touched, or anything, but I've had a really shit day, and I just want to sleep." The boy did look exhausted to Harry's eye, and still a bit drunk. Perhaps it would be for the best if he and Zaf left him alone for now. Although, Harry realized as he prevaricated there in the kitchen doorway, Section X would be coming along in the morning, to dig through Ruth's belongings, and there was her mother to worry about.

"Of course," Harry said after another moment's consideration. "I'd like to give you my number, so we can talk about the house, if you decide that's something you'd like to do. Do you have a pen?"

Will gave him a withering look as he fished his mobile from his pocket, and tapped a few buttons. "What's the number?" he asked, not looking up from the screen.

Harry gave it to him, watching as the boy entered the number on his mobile, and saved it for later. _Of course,_ Harry thought sullenly, _who needs a pen these days?_

In his pocket, he felt the vibration of his own mobile, signaling the arrival of a text message.

"There, now you have my number, too," Will said, finally looking back up. As much as he might have liked to, Harry found he could not meet the boy's gaze. The shock of it still hadn't worn off, the sheer incongruousness of seeing all those little pieces of Ruth in the face of another. "Now, please-"

"We'll be on our way," Harry agreed. He took Zaf by the arm, and frog-marched him from the house, Will hot on their heels. The boy didn't say good night; he walked them to the door, and promptly locked it behind them.

"Now then, Mr. Younis," Harry said, rounding on his young employee. "I believe you have some explaining to do."

* * *

After a brief and distinctly one-sided discussion, they adjourned to a nearby pub for dinner, drinks, and a bit of a debrief.

Harry sat quietly, staring into his tumbler of whiskey. Over the roughly thirty minutes it had taken them to reach their destination and order their food and drinks, his initial enthusiasm for this particular conversation had waned, somewhat. He was bone tired; he'd gotten no more than a few hours' sleep, in the days since Ruth had witnessed Mik Mauldsley's grisly end. What Harry wanted, more than anything, was to go to bed, and wake tomorrow to find this was all a bad dream. He wanted to walk onto the Grid in the morning, and see Ruth's tentative smile. He wanted her back, in his life, where she belonged, safe and sound, and he didn't want this awful hole in his heart, where she used to be.

With a start, he realized he'd left without the cats, and without the bag of her belongings he'd gathered. It was probably for the best, in the end; it felt wrong, to take anything from the house without Will's permission, and it was clear the boy wasn't at all prepared to face a discussion regarding the disbursement of his mother's things.

 _His mother._

 _Christ,_ but that still seemed so strange to Harry. The thought had occurred to him before, in quiet moments when he sat alone with no one but his little dog for company; _Ruth would make a fine mother_ , he'd tell himself, after watching her dispense her compassion and her kindness to junior analysts and senior field agents and exhausted Section Heads alike. And all the while, unbeknownst to him, she already was.

"She only told me this morning," Zaf confessed. Like Harry, he seemed unable to raise his eyes from his glass. It was strange, seeing his young agent looking so despondent; Zaf usually had a cheeky word for every situation, no matter how grim.

"What did she tell you, exactly?" Harry asked. He had to know what she'd said, why she'd said it, why she'd told Zaf, and not him. Ruth had asked Harry to look after her cats, and confided in Zaf about her son; it made no sense to him, and if he were being honest, it hurt more than a little. It hurt to know that she had entrusted this secret to Zaf, and when Harry came to her only a few hours later, she had never even mentioned it. _But you can bet she didn't kiss him, not the way she kissed you,_ he reminded himself.

"She asked me to look after him. She was worried, apparently her mum's a bit of a monster. And Will's only twenty-one."

 _Christ,_ Harry thought again. If Will was twenty-one, that meant… _fifteen,_ he told himself, hardly daring to believe it. _She was fifteen._

"How-"

"I don't know," Zaf shrugged. "I looked him up, but it's all a bit muzzy. Couldn't find a record of his birth anywhere, but there has to be something, right?"

"Start from the beginning," Harry ordered. He would treat this like any other operation; right now he needed facts, and he needed to keep his emotions out of it.

"Right," Zaf took a deep breath. "Here's what I know. At the time Will was born, Ruth and her family were living in Exeter. A few months after he was born, they picked up and moved to Gloucester. When Ruth was eighteen, she left home for Oxford, and never came back. I couldn't find a copy of Will's birth certificate, or anything, but I was able to access his medical records. It looks like she took him with her, when she left home."

There was a pause here, as Zaf gave Harry a chance to process this information. The move to Gloucester made a certain amount of sense, Harry supposed. If Elizabeth was as awful as she seemed to be given their rather heated phone conversation, he could very easily imagine her picking up the whole family and moving to a place where no one knew about the shame of her daughter's…indiscretion. That Zaf hadn't found a copy of the boy's birth certificate was troubling, and more troubling still was the information that Ruth had brought her son with her, to Oxford. Had she really managed to attend university and care for her son, all on her own at the tender age of eighteen? If anyone could have done it, Harry supposed, it would have been Ruth, who was, without a doubt, the most intelligent, most stubborn, most capable woman he'd ever known.

"She took him with her?" Harry mused aloud.

Zaf nodded, still refusing to look up from his beer. "She never lived in student housing. She worked at a bookshop, and as a waitress at a pub."

 _And raised a toddler and finished with a first in Classics, to boot,_ Harry thought, feeling a fierce burst of pride run through him at that.

"She took him with her to Cheltenham; there's no mention of him in her personnel file from GCHQ, but his school records check out. Her parents moved there, shortly after her stepbrother…" Zaf trailed off at this. Bitter memories of Angela Wells rushed through Harry's mind, and he imagined Zaf was feeling much the same, in that moment.

There was one question Harry dearly wanted to ask, one question he couldn't bring himself to speak aloud. How could he ask, without sounding a bit desperate, a bit pathetic? How could he ask without drawing attention to the fact that he had loved this woman, and never known her?

"I couldn't find anything, anywhere, about his father," Zaf added, as if reading Harry's mind.

 _Oh Ruth,_ he thought sadly, _you covered your tracks well._

"Thank you, Zaf," Harry said quietly.

"She asked me to be a friend to him, Harry," Zaf told him seriously. "I'm going to keep that promise."

"And I have no intention of stopping you," Harry told him. "We'll need to put together some kind of plan, moving forward. You should know, I've told him she's not dead."

At this Zaf gave him a long, speculating sort of look. Harry knew that he had been brash, foolish even, in telling the boy the truth, but he simply could not have lived with himself, had he lied. Surely Zaf would understand that. At least, Harry hoped he would.

"I would have done the same," Zaf said.

* * *

The next morning Will woke to find himself tangled up on the couch, shoes still on, with a terrible headache and his mouth feeling like it had been stuffed with cotton. He stumbled to the bathroom, nearly falling flat on his face as he tripped over a bag in the hallway. Will cursed the bag, and dragged himself into the shower.

As the hot water ran over his body, Will slowly came back to himself, remembering everything that had happened the day before. First there came a wave of sorrow so great that he could not contain it, and was forced to lean against the shower wall as he wept for his mother. She was a bit neurotic and a bit sad and bit of a mess, but she was his _mum_ , and he loved her dearly. Will knew all too well how much she had given up for him, what it had cost her to raise him on her own. And if what Harry had told him was true, she'd gone one step further, and traded her very life to keep him safe.

What was he supposed to do now? He had no mum, and no dad, no brothers or sisters, just one bitter, angry gran and one…well, one David. David was not a particularly warm man, nor was he a cruel one, but he had never been much of a grandfather, as far as Will was concerned.

He had his friends, friends who took him out and drank with him and listened to his stories about his mum and held him while he cried over her and poured him into a taxi when he could take no more. They had texted him, all day yesterday and all through the night, telling him how sorry they were, how they wanted to help, how he could come and stay with them, if he wanted. Which of course he didn't; his friends all had parents, and siblings, and lovely warm houses, and Will couldn't bear to be surrounded by that sort of familial bliss just now. Couldn't bear to be surrounded by all the reminders of what he would never have.

All Will had, now, was an empty house and two ornery old cats and a mobile number for his mother's boss. _God, that's pathetic._

As Will's tears subsided, he took several deep breaths, trying to clear his head. His Gran would be coming round soon ( _damn her)_ and he needed to be ready to face her. Whether he could afford it or not, this house and everything in it was his, and he wasn't about to let that miserable old harpy take any of it away from him.

 _I ought to ring Harry,_ he thought as he stepped out of the shower. The old man's offer of a solicitor would likely be rather helpful, in the end. As he dried himself off and wandered back to his room for some clothes, Will's thoughts turned toward Harry. He wasn't exactly what Will had in mind, for the sort of man who might take his mother out on a date. He was much too old, for one thing, and for another, there was something slightly…dangerous, about him. He was bulky, but quick and quiet on his feet, and his soft voice seemed to carry with it a latent sort of threat. There was something about him, something that made Will wonder if he could trust him, if he could believe a word he said. _If that man works for DEFRA then I'm the bloody Queen,_ Will thought as he tugged on his jeans.

Still, though, Harry was all he had, just now. Harry would know who to call, to make the funeral arrangements, and Will got the sense that Harry would be able to put Elizabeth in her place without any trouble. It was still a bit early, to be making those sorts of calls, so Will decided to fix himself some breakfast before ringing the mysterious Harry.

 _Did he love her?_ Will wondered as he started the kettle. Harry had clearly been shocked, to learn that Ruth had a son, and that troubled Will, more than a little. How well could they have known each other, if she'd never told him? They'd only been on the one date, as far as Will knew, but Harry had come round to gather up her things and the bloody, infernal cats; the two pieces of information didn't quite stack up, in his mind.

More than anything, Will wished his mum were here now. He wished he could ask her what was going on, ask her why she hadn't gone out with Harry again, ask her why she'd had to leave. Any time Will had a problem, a question, a doubt, he always went to her. And no matter how old he grew, she would always take him in her arms, and work through it with him. When he was little, Will had been convinced that his mother knew everything. He still was, to be honest.

From his seat at the kitchen table, Will could just make out the shape of the bag Harry had left behind the night before. Curiosity overcame him, and so he went to retrieve it, bringing it back to the table so he could go through its contents. Perhaps just seeing what Harry had chosen to take would offer some explanation as to the nature of his relationship with Ruth.

The scarf and the ring and the blanket all made a certain amount of sense; these were some of her favorite things, and anyone who knew her well would have seen them often enough to know that she was fond of them. He found no trace of her favorite necklace, and for a moment he lost himself in wondering if she was still wearing it. He hoped she was, hoped she'd managed to take at least one piece of home with her into her exile.

The box made sense, too. It was packed with pictures of Will through the years, and a copy of his birth certificate, and a letter from his Uncle Peter, still unopened. _That's odd,_ he thought, turning the letter over in his hands. Of all his family members, only Uncle Peter had ever shown any interest in Ruth and Will. They used to do Christmas together, just the three of them, sometimes joined by Peter's mad girlfriend Angela. Angela hadn't come round, since Peter had killed himself, not that Will missed her presence very much. Peter though, Peter was the closest thing Will had ever had to a father, and he missed him every day. His mum missed him too, Will knew, so why hadn't she opened the letter?

He went back to the bag, pulling out the books Harry had secreted away. There was a copy of the _Aeneid,_ and _Jane Eyre_ , and a book on cats he'd never seen before, and a copy of _Amores._ Will smiled when he saw it; that was one of his mum's favorites, he knew. That book had been on her nightstand for ages now. He ran his fingers over the cover, still smiling slightly, and on a whim, he cracked it open.

Will's mum was a very private sort of person, and given what she'd been through, he understood and respected that about her. They didn't go messing about in each other's lives uninvited; it just wasn't their way. And so it was that this was the first time Will had ever opened this particular book, and it was the first time he'd ever seen the note, handwritten on the inside of the front cover.

 _Happy Birthday, Ruth,_ it said. _Best wishes, Harry._

Will stared at that note for a long time, thinking hard.


	6. Chapter 6

Harry sat in his shirtsleeves at his kitchen table, staring at his mobile morosely. It had been another sleepless night for him, as he tossed and turned, thinking only of Ruth. Of Ruth, resplendent in her sorrow as she kissed him, as she whispered _let me go, Harry,_ her breath warm against his lips _._ Of Ruth, young and afraid and entirely on her own, sitting in some dingy flat in Oxford trying to study Latin and look after her son at the same time. Of Ruth, the way she had been the day he first met her, all full of spirit and sparkling enthusiasm, and Ruth the way she had been when she left him, older and wiser, jaded and sad.

Over his many years of service, Harry had been forced to make untold sacrifices. He'd lost friends, lost his marriage, lost contact with his children, and he'd done it all for duty. He had justified it to himself, had told himself this was the cost, for freedom, for security, had told himself that even if his children refused to speak to him, at least he knew they were safe, because of the work he did. There was no validation for this loss, however. It was Ruth who had made this choice, Ruth who had sacrificed herself, and Harry was finding that impossible to come to grips with.

Was this how Jane had felt, he wondered, when MI-5 stole him away from her? Lonesome and angry and completely disenchanted with the whole bloody system? Had she struggled as he was now, trying to understand why the one she loved had chosen to stand on the wall, rather than by her side? Ruth had given up her life, her freedom, to safeguard his, but still, he could find little gratitude in his heart. He felt anger, for Mace and those who worked with him, those who had used her to bait the trap for him. He felt loss, the sharp sting of emptiness where all his hopes for Ruth once rested.

He felt confusion, too, as he continued to stare at his mobile, wondering whether or not he ought to ring her son. After he'd bid goodnight to Zaf and made his way home, Harry had sat for a time in front of his home computer, wondering how best to go about finding answers to his questions. Slogging through internet back channels had never been his forte; he had cut his teeth as a field agent in a time when electronic record keeping was rudimentary at best, and the surest way to find any piece of information was to wheedle it out of a living, breathing asset. All the incomprehensible poking around inside computers had come into vogue after he'd entered the echelons of upper management, and by that time he had people to do his poking for him. Malcolm would know what to do, should Harry choose to take him into his confidence, but Harry wasn't sure that was the best course of action. Malcolm was kind and considerate and endlessly loyal, and a good friend to Ruth besides; Harry knew he could be trusted with this secret. Trust was not the issue. The issue was that Harry couldn't shake the sense that each time he widened the circle of people who knew the truth about Will, he was only hurting Ruth that little bit more.

Which was ridiculous, really, considering that chances were good none of them would ever see her again.

Another cause for his hesitation, in asking Malcolm to go digging into her background, was his belief that it simply wasn't any of his business. Did it matter, really, where the boy came from? He was here, now, and in need of help. Harry had no right to go looking for sordid details just to satisfy his own curiosity. There was no need for such an invasion of Ruth's privacy, and so Harry refrained from calling Malcolm.

At the moment, he was wondering whether it was too early to be ringing Will. The boy had had rather a rough day, yesterday, and likely had not gotten a good night's rest. And even if he was awake, there was no telling whether or not he'd actually want to speak to Harry. Harry very much wanted to speak with him, wanted to find out what manner of person he was, wanted to help, if help was needed. He wanted that connection to Ruth, however tenuous it might be, wanted to feel as if she weren't completely lost to him.

The best course of action, he knew, would be to wait and see if the boy rang him first. It was a prickly situation, between Will's mistrust for Harry and his distress over the loss of his mum and all the confusion and the welter of mundane details that came along with the ending of a life. Ruth might not actually be dead, but legally she was, and, as always, there would be a great deal of paperwork involved. Harry would like, very much, to help, but he would not go sticking his nose in where he wasn't wanted. If Will was anything like his mother, such aggressive attention would only make him retreat like a turtle into its shell, and Harry dearly wished to avoid such a loss of contact.

And so he sat, and waited, staring at his mobile.

The very moment he finished his coffee, the phone rang, and Harry snatched it up at once.

"Harry Pearce," he said, not bothering to look at the screen to see who was calling. He almost never did; what was the point? He'd find out who was ringing him the moment they first spoke.

"Uh, Mr. Pearce? Harry? It's Will. Will Evershed."

Harry's tired heart gave a little start, at those words. Like his mum, Will sounded a bit nervous on the phone, and the sound of her name, _Evershed,_ coming from his lips, still spoken aloud and not in a hushed, regretful whisper, lifted his spirits.

"Will," Harry answered as warmly as he could. "How are you?"

There was a long moment of silence, and Harry wondered if he'd completely overstepped the mark. He'd intended to sound comforting, if such a thing were possible; it was often his job to bolster the resolve of many a flagging field agent, to encourage his team, to say the right word in the right moment to keep the wheels spinning madly on. Will was not an agent, though, not someone who looked to him for professional leadership. He was just a boy, a boy who'd lost his mum, and Harry knew this required a slightly different tactic. Stern and commanding wouldn't work, here, and so he was trying to appear a bit more…approachable, if possible.

"I don't actually know," Will said with a sad little laugh. "I'm still trying to…wrap my head around it, I guess."

Harry nodded, and then gave a little grunt when he remembered the boy couldn't see him. He felt much the same way himself, as if he were suffering some sort of emotional whiplash. At least he knew all the details; Will knew nothing at all, and still he was having to find a way to carry on in this new reality.

"I've just had a call from Gran, she's going to be here in an hour, and I'm not sure I can face her," Will confessed in a soft voice.

 _Easy, now,_ Harry told himself. He wanted to say _I'll be there in twenty minutes,_ but he wasn't entirely sure that Will was extending him an invitation, just now. It could just be that he needed someone to talk to, someone who had known his mum, had cared about her, someone who knew just how awful his grandmother was.

"I know you probably have other things to do, probably have to go into work-" he didn't actually; in an unprecedented move, Harry had taken the day off- "but I was wondering if you might…maybe…could you come round? Just for a bit, just to scare her off?"

"I'd be happy to," Harry said gruffly, trying to hide his pleasure at the request. It wasn't that he was particularly looking forward to wrangling with Ruth's mum, but rather that he felt an overpowering sense of gratitude, at having been the one Will had called for help. He wanted to make himself useful, and whatever impression he'd made on Will yesterday seemed to have been good enough to convince the boy to give him this opportunity. Harry was determined not to waste it. "I'll be there quick as I can."

"Thanks, mate," Will said earnestly. After a rather uncomfortable beat of silence between them, the boy hung up, and Harry did the same, smiling just a little.

* * *

When arrived at Ruth's, he hesitated only a moment before ringing the bell. It was strange, being back here so soon; as he stood on her doorstep the memory of the first kiss he'd shared with her came washing back over him, sharp and sweet and bitter all at once. With a start he realized that perhaps some of her hesitation that night had come not from a desire to separate herself from him, but from the fact that Will was likely on the other side of the door. Had she wanted to ask him in, but refused, for the sake of her son? It was a strange thought, and it sat heavily in Harry's chest. She'd certainly kissed him like she wanted to invite him in, and he'd beat back his disappointment by reminding himself that it was only their first date, and he'd have other chances, other nights, when she might be feeling braver. Everything she'd ever done, every word she'd ever said to him, looked different now, viewed through this lens. It all made a great deal of sense, he realized, now that he knew about Will. _She_ made sense, where before she'd only confused him.

Harry didn't have long to ponder this particular revelation, however, before Will threw open the door with a worried look on his face. He was wearing blue jeans and a grey t-shirt with some unfathomably hip band logo plaster across the front. His hair was clean, though still a bit of a mess; Harry fought back the urge to tell him he ought to cut it. Had Ruth liked his hair shaggy like this? Had they rowed about it, Will and his mum, the way parents and children will do when their perspectives on personal grooming differ?

"Come in," Will said, stuffing his hands in his pockets. His posture was a bit awkward and uncertain, not that Harry could blame him.

"Thank you," Harry said, and stepped into Ruth's house for the second time in twenty-four hours. For the second time he was assaulted by the scent of her perfume, lingering on the air, and he struggled to tamp down on the wave of regret that washed over him.

"Uh, tea?" Will offered, and Harry gave him a little nod in response, following the boy back into the kitchen.

There was a bit of clutter on the table; as Harry drew nearer, he realized that it was the contents of the bag he'd packed, strewn out as if Will had gone digging through it. It felt like a strange sort of invasion, knowing that Will had seen what he'd chosen to take with him, and wondering what sort of conclusion the boy had drawn from the items assembled there. His hand drifted toward the edition of Ovid he'd given Ruth for her birthday, but he felt Will's eyes on him and snatched his hand back, hoping the gesture had gone unnoticed.

"I didn't realize you were that close," Will said from across the room.

Harry didn't really know what to say to that. Had Will seen the book? Had he seen the note, written inside the front cover? Did he know his Classics well enough to realize that Harry had given Ruth a book of romantic poetry for her birthday? Did he know that _Amores_ was a collection of elegies on the heartbreak of loving an unattainable woman, and if he did, what did he make of it?

"We worked together for several years," Harry said in what he hoped was a neutral sort of tone. "I was – I am – very…fond, of Ruth."

 _Christ,_ but this was an uncomfortable situation for him to find himself in, and so early in the bloody morning to boot. No doubt Will desperately did not want to hear about Harry's romantic intentions where Ruth was concerned – what boy _would_ want to hear such things, about his mother? – and Harry very much did not want to discuss them, just now.

"Right," Will said, and that was that.

Another dreadfully awkward silence ensued, as Will finished making the tea and Harry tried to find somewhere safer to rest his gaze. He eventually landed on the cat that was currently winding itself round his ankles, and he allowed his attention to remain there until Will brought him his tea.

"I've been thinking, maybe you should take the cats," Will said with a sigh as he took his seat. "I'll go back to university, soon, and I don't think I can take them with me."

Harry nodded. "I'd be glad to," he said. He'd already promised Ruth he would; taking on the little animals would be no great imposition.

Before they could delve any further into the disbursement of Ruth's belongings, the doorbell rang. Will gave a despondent little sigh, and heaved himself out of his chair.

"This is going to be a bloody nightmare," he told Harry in a conspiratorial whisper.

And it was.


	7. Chapter 7

The moment Elizabeth walked through the door, she started complaining.

"Would you look at the state of this place?" she sniffed, staring around with an expression on her face that reminded Harry forcefully of the little Chinese pug Jane had kept as a pet when he'd first met her. "You'd think she could have done a bit of tidying up, here and there."

"Yes well, I don't think she planned on dying, Gran," Will snapped. "I'm sure if she'd known that was going to happen she would have spruced the place up a bit, just for you."

Harry was trying very hard not to smile, just now. He had to give it to Will; the boy had courage, standing up to her like that. Ruth's mum was an elegant sort of woman, her silver hair caught at the nape of her neck in a sleek little bun, her clothes neat and freshly ironed. There was something hard about her face, something unpleasant in the tilt of her mouth, and Harry's dislike for her seemed to grow with every word she spoke. He was too much a spook to let it show, however; he was here to keep the peace, and he intended to do just that. With no small amount of trepidation, he took a step into the room, and immediately drew Elizabeth's attention. Her eyes were blue, too, he saw, though they held none of Ruth's warmth or compassion.

"And who are you?" Elizabeth sneered.

"Mrs. Bickley, I'm Harry Pearce. We spoke on the phone yesterday." Harry offered her his hand to shake, but she made no move to accept it. He didn't think it was possible, for her to turn her nose up any more than she had already done, but somehow, she managed it.

"I see," she sniffed dismissively. "Mr. Pearce, this a family matter, and your presence is not needed here."

"He's staying," Will said, crossing his arms stubbornly. "It's you who's not needed."

Harry stepped further into the room, carefully placing himself between Will and his irate grandmother. The air between the pair of them practically dripped with animosity, and Harry very much wanted to get a handle on the situation. Will didn't strike him as the sort of boy who would react violently, even in the face of such obvious scorn, but still, he wanted to keep the shouting to a minimum, if possible.

"After everything we've done for you, this is how you treat me?" Elizabeth protested in a tragic sort of voice.

"Oh yeah, Gran, you've been wonderful," Will responded, the sarcasm so heavy in his tone Harry felt he could have cut it with a knife. "You were such a great help! Never sent her a penny, while she was working to pay for university and bringing me up on her own, never invited us round for Christmas, never even called when Uncle Peter-"

"Don't you say his name to me!" Elizabeth snarled.

"That's enough," Harry said quietly, in his best boss-spook voice. It did the trick; they both fell silent, glowering at each other from opposite ends of the sitting room.

"Mrs. Bickley," he continued, turning to face her. "Ruth has left very clear instructions that all of her personal belongings are to go to Will. Is there something specific you came here to collect? Perhaps we could reach some sort of agreement."

"I don't know what gives you the right," she grumbled. "She was my bloody daughter." Elizabeth wasn't shouting, for which Harry was very thankful, but for all her wrinkles and grey hair she looked very much like a pouting child in that moment, and her tone set Harry's teeth on edge.

"I understand that," he said levelly, "which is why I have asked if you're interested in anything specific. I'm sure Will is prepared to be reasonable about this, provided you are, too."

"I want the house," she said crossing her arms over her chest defiantly. This inspired a fresh wave of outrage from Will.

"You mad bitch-"

"Will," Harry said in a warning tone. As awful as Elizabeth might have been, Harry was fairly certain Ruth would not have approved of Will speaking to her that way. Though the boy retreated at the sound of Harry's voice, his Gran saw an opportunity, and she took it.

"We sacrificed everything for you! Left our home behind-"

"Because you were so bloody worried about what people might think of _you-"_

"We would have been well within our rights to chuck her out! Honestly, after what she did-"

"It wasn't her fault, you miserable cow-"

"ENOUGH!" Harry bellowed. The pair of them quailed in the face of his wrath, and he breathed a sigh of relief in the momentary quiet that followed.

"The house belongs to Will, and it is his to do with as he pleases. I think perhaps it might be best if you left, Mrs. Bickley." There was no way they were going to accomplish anything like this, Harry knew. Neither of them was prepared to back down, and two decades of familial discontent had bred such a rancor that it seemed they weren't even capable of carrying on a simple conversation without hurling expletives at one another.

"Is this what it's come to, then? I'm to be thrown out of my own daughter's home? I shudder to think what you're doing mixed up in this business," she pointed a bony finger at Harry. "Don't be fooled, Mr. Pearce. I knew my daughter, knew her better than you. She was selfish and manipulative and- and- and a common whore!"

"OUT!" Harry shouted, taking one menacing step towards her. Elizabeth huffed and beat a hasty retreat, slamming the front door behind her as she went. In her wake Harry was left with his hands clenched in fists down by his sides, breathing like a bellows as rage wound its way around his heart. _How dare she?_ He could hardly believe it, that someone could say such terrible things about _Ruth_ of all people, Ruth who was sweet and kind and good and had never done anything more than kiss him, no matter the feelings that bound them together. _Ruth_ , who had retreated from him in the corridor of the Havensworth hotel with sorrow and longing in her eyes, who had, from what little he'd learned, sacrificed everything to make a good life for her son.

"I hate her," Will said in a broken little voice, drawing Harry out of his reverie. He could tell, even before he looked, that the boy was crying, and when he spun on his heel to face him, his suspicions were confirmed. Will was scrubbing furiously at his cheeks, trying to hide his tears, but they were there, all the same.

"I think I might, as well," Harry confessed, slowly releasing the tension he'd been holding in his shoulders since the moment Elizabeth had first entered the house. Will gave a weak, wet sort of chuckle at that. "Is she always like that?"

"Sometimes she's worse."

Harry sighed. "How about some tea, then?" he asked, and Will just nodded dumbly and followed him into the cramped little kitchen.

Harry had been in this house on exactly two previous occasions, but given that they had both been worked related, and he'd never seen more than the kitchen, he wasn't entirely sure they counted. His most recent visit had taken place just a few days prior, when he'd picked a shell-shocked Ruth up from the train station, driven her home, and fixed her a cup of tea. In his mind he could still see her, leaned up against the counter, her face sad and scared, and he gave his head a little shake to dispel the image. He recalled where she kept the tea, and set about making a fresh cup for himself and for Will. If the boy found it odd, that Harry knew where the tea was, he said nothing.

When they tea was ready, they took it and sat down at the kitchen table by the windows, sunshine streaming in and throwing long shadows on the floor.

"What was that all about, then?" Harry asked carefully, watching Will over the rim of his mug. Elizabeth's words were swirling around inside his head, her vehement response to the mention of Peter Haig flashing before his eyes and the word _whore_ ringing in his ears like some ghastly bell. In the three years they'd worked together Ruth had never once submitted the requisite background check form for a potential romantic partner, and he could only ever recall her mentioning a date once, and that was long ago. There was the Fortescue incident, he supposed, but that was all so innocent and bumbling. He couldn't quite reconcile his image of Ruth, in her long, frumpy skirts and her shy little blushes, with the horrible descriptor her mother had spat out.

Will looked up at him sharply, his eyes still glistening somewhat from his earlier tears. They were on dangerous ground, he realized. Harry had just asked a rather personal question, and it seemed that Will was just as defensive of his mother's privacy as she herself had been.

"I suppose you've figured it out," Will said in a quiet little voice. His posture was withdrawn, as he leaned away from Harry, his shoulders hunched and both his hands wrapped around his mug. "Yeah, she was young when I was born. It's all my fault, Gran never forgave her."

"How is that your fault?" Harry asked, as kindly as he could manage. It was hard to see him like this, this young man who had been so full of fire only a few minutes before reduced to guilt and grief over something he'd had no control over.

"If I'd never been born," Will started, but then his voice trailed away. Before Harry had a chance to formulate an appropriate response, the boy picked up the thread of his previous thought and continued, "If I'd never been born, things would have been so much better for her. For everyone."

"I don't think she'd agree with you," Harry said firmly. Though they'd never discussed her son, Harry knew Ruth rather well. He'd seen her at her best and at her worst, seen her on top of the world and shattered into pieces, and in his heart he knew that she must have loved her son, very much. Probably more than anyone or anything else in her life.

"She was…she…my dad, he…" It was plain, from where Harry was sitting, that the boy was struggling with himself, unable to form the words, and a fear as heavy as lead settled in Harry's heart. He thought he knew, from the sound of Will's voice, from the expression on his face, what he was trying to say, and it horrified him. It shook him to his very core; _God, no,_ he thought desperately, _please no._

Aloud he said only, "You don't have to tell me, if you don't want to."

He meant those words, too. Harry wasn't entirely sure that he was prepared to hear what Will was trying to tell him.

For his part, the boy cast him a sad, almost grateful sort of look, and did not finish the thought.

"I think she really liked you," he confessed quietly. "She didn't really date, my mother. Not even when I was little. But she was really excited about going out with you."

His every word pierced Harry like a little dagger, new scars rising up with each passing second. It was unbearable, really, thinking about everything that could have been, should have been; if only he'd been braver, asked her sooner, pursued her more ardently, protected her better. _If only, if only, if only…_

"God, this is depressing," Will sighed. "Is it too early for us to get pissed?"

Harry forced himself to chuckle, trying valiantly to rein in his emotions. He was angry, still, after the confrontation with Elizabeth; he was terrified, after Will's almost-confession regarding his mother; he was heartbroken, thinking of Ruth and the fact that he would never see her, never hold her, ever again. All together it was almost more than he could stand, but he had promised himself he would be here, for Will, and so he stayed, and listened.

* * *

Will regarded the man sitting across the table from him quietly, trying to compile everything he'd seen and heard and fit it all into a cohesive image. His mum had been the analyst, the obsessive researcher, constantly gathering little facts and filing them away for later. While he lacked her interest in history, he shared her passion for knowledge, and Will tried to apply the lessons she'd taught him to the current situation.

Harry had given her a book of poetry for her birthday, had given Will his mobile number, had driven to the house first thing in the morning and held his own against Will's horrid grandmother, and when Elizabeth had insulted Ruth, his face had turned nearly purple with rage. Added to the gentle way he was speaking to Will now, and the fact that he had not shied away from what Will had almost confessed regarding his father, it all made a picture of a thoroughly decent man. One who seemed a bit stiff and used to getting his own way, perhaps, but still, decent. Ruth had said he was a good man, and finally, Will was starting to believe her.

Would Harry's attitude change, when he learned the truth about Will's dad? Would knowing where he'd come from send Harry running for the hills, never to be seen or heard from again? Will didn't know this man well enough to trust him completely, just yet, but he was grateful to have someone on his side, someone who had known his mother, someone who had cared for her, and he desperately did not want to lose this connection just yet. So for now he held that piece of information back, and when Harry offered to ring a solicitor for him, he readily agreed. He needed all the help he could get.


	8. Chapter 8

_5 September, 2003_

"Are you sure you're going to be all right on your own today, love?" Ruth asked nervously. She was vaguely aware that they'd already had this conversation at least twice before, but she felt the need to confirm, one more time. Yes, Will was eighteen bloody years old and more than capable of spending the day home alone, but they'd only moved to London two days earlier, and Ruth was nervous.

 _I'm his mum,_ she thought glumly, _it's my job to be nervous._

London and Cheltenham were about as different as it was possible for two cities to be, in her mind. In Cheltenham they had been safe, surrounded by neighbors they knew well enough to invite over for drinks of a Friday night. Nothing ever happened, and nothing ever seemed to change, in Cheltenham, and they'd comfortable and safe and bored senseless, the pair of them. It had been a gamble, leaving behind her little house and all her friends and everyone Will had ever known to make a new start in London, but her request for a secondment to Five had finally been accepted, and now was as good a time as any to make a new start.

"I'll be fine, mum, honestly," Will protested around a jaw-cracking yawn. "I've got to unpack all these bloody boxes-"

"Language, Will," she admonished him, smiling.

"And when that's done, I'll have to pack my stuff back up again," he finished, pretending he hadn't heard her.

The last thing she wanted right now was a reminder that Will was due to start at Oxford in just a few days. It didn't seem possible, that her boy was old enough to be heading off to uni; it seemed like only yesterday he'd been a pink, squalling newborn. He'd been born with a tuft of untidy black hair that didn't look so very different from the shaggy mop he wore now, and she'd found she was just as worried for his safety as she had been the day he was born. Ruth was loath to let him out of her sight, even for a moment; how could she protect him, if he was so far away from her? His whole life she'd hovered in the background, trying to let him find his feet, always ready to catch him should he stumble.

She had to let him go, though, she knew she did. Ruth understood all too well the siren song of Oxford; it had called to her, too, when she was eighteen years old and eager for a fresh start. Of course, her circumstances had differed somewhat from Will's. She had been running like mad to escape the horror of her family, to put as much distance as possible between herself and her bitter, angry mother. David hadn't been so bad, and perhaps Ruth might have come to like him, care for him, even, if he hadn't sat idly by and allowed Elizabeth to run roughshod over the rest of them. And Peter, dear, sweet Peter, his sad eyes and clumsy affections had grown unbearable to Ruth. So she'd packed up her things and her son and hit the road, never to return. Her mother had been absolutely furious, when Ruth had informed her of her decision, and had snarled through clenched teeth that if Ruth wanted to run off, so be it, but she had better not expect Elizabeth and David to come pick her up when she failed. And Elizabeth had been true to her word; she had never offered any help, and every time they talked, as infrequent as those occasions had been, they'd always ended up bickering. Ruth had not been back to her family home since the day she'd moved out fifteen years before, and she found she did not miss it, not even a little.

Things wouldn't be quite so gloomy for Will, as he started out. He wouldn't need to worry about how on earth he was going to pay his tuition; Ruth had sorted that out already (with some help from the significant pay raise her secondment afforded her). And she'd be just a phone call away, should he need anything, be it more money or just a friendly ear. He would have some place warm and comfortable to return to on breaks, and he'd be able to live in student housing, and make friends with his peers. Ruth had never had that opportunity; she couldn't very well go out to parties and get drunk every night of the week the way her classmates seemed to, between work and class and looking after Will. Sometimes she wondered what it might have been like, if her experience at uni had been different.

And then she'd look at Will, and remember everything she'd shared with him during those years, and remind herself firmly that she wouldn't want it any other way. He was walking and talking when they arrived in Oxford, and by the time they left, he was reading and writing and learning maths and asking her all sorts of strange, insightful questions about the world around him. He'd always been such a curious boy, her Will, curious and quiet but with a mischievous streak a mile wide.

She remembered all too well the night she'd been sat on the floor of the sitting room, her books strewn all around her while she tried to study, when she heard the sound of his giggling coming from down the hall. At first she'd been rather concerned, seeing as it was late and she had put him to bed hours before, and so she'd gone off in search of him. She'd found a four year old Will, completely naked, stood in the middle of the bathroom surrounded by a pile of broken eggs. At first, taking in the mess and the sight of all those wasted eggs she'd been on the verge of weeping, but then Will began to tell her very seriously how he was learning to juggle, and how he was certain that he'd almost figured it out. Ruth had started to laugh then; he'd been so bloody earnest about the whole thing, she couldn't help it. She laughed until she found her knees wouldn't hold her, and so she collapsed in a heap on the floor, holding out her arms to her son. He'd come and snuggled up in her lap, covered in bits of debris from the eggs and rather sticky as a result, and she'd held him, and laughed, and rocked him until he fell asleep in her arms.

And now he was all grown up (and, mercifully, fully clothed) and preparing himself to head off to uni.

 _To every thing there is a season, and a time to every purpose under heaven,_ she thought sadly. The season of Will's childhood had drawn to a close, and the sun was rising on his adulthood, and she was profoundly grateful for the opportunity she'd been given to witness it, no matter how nostalgic she might feel over the change in their circumstances.

"What about you?" he asked her, drawing her out of her momentary melancholy. "Are you going to be all right today?"

They were sitting together in the kitchen; well, Will was sitting. He was planted at the kitchen table with a hot cup of a tea and a plate full of bacon in front of him, still in his pajamas, his hair sticking up in a million different directions. Ruth was leaning up against the sink, her own cup of tea cradled in her hands, hands that itched to reach out and smooth down her son's unruly hair.

"I'll be fine," she assured him, feeling the nerves fluttering in her stomach once again. She still couldn't quite believe this was really happening, that she was really going to work for Section D. Everyone at GCHQ had been suitably envious, when they learned that her application had been accepted; only a select few analysts ever made it out of the drudgery of Cheltenham to enter the fast-paced world of MI-5, and fewer still managed to snare one of the coveted positions with counter-terrorism. That _Ruth_ , shy, unassuming Ruth, had somehow talked her way into such an exciting opportunity had provoked more than a few snide comments from her coworkers, but that was nothing new to Ruth. She'd spent most of her teenage years being laughed at and ridiculed by other students, endured more than her fair share of filthy rumors and ill-conceived pranks, and so the bitter murmurings of a few underpaid government analysts were not quite enough to put her off. Which is not to say she wasn't bothered by it; though others in her position might have developed thicker skins, and learned to laugh off the gossip, Ruth remained just as sensitive to cruel words and snide suppositions as she had been as a child. Only now, now she wasn't going to let her heartache stop her from seizing what she wanted.

And oh, how she wanted this. In a few short days Will would be gone, her house would be entirely too quiet and entirely too clean, and she was in desperate need of a good distraction. What better distraction, then, than throwing herself into the world of espionage, devoting herself to the security of the nation? Ruth longed to see the tangible results of her hard work, and in Section D, she knew she would find such an opportunity.

"I'll be fine," she told him with a tight little grin.

Of course, Will didn't know the details of her new job. MI-5 suggested that its employees keep the true nature of their work a secret, even to their own families, and each section of the service had its own preferred legend. In Section D, most agents used DEFRA as their cover story, and so Ruth had done the same, assuring her son she was taking the most boring possible position she could come up with. He was about to start uni, he had enough to worry about as it was. No need to complicate matters further.

"You're also going to be late," Will pointed out, nodding towards the clock on the wall behind her.

"Shit!" she cried, nearly dropping her tea in her haste. As she scrambled around, trying to locate her boots, Will chuckled, just a bit.

"Call me at lunch time, yeah? If you get a chance?" he asked, rising from his chair to follow her as she beat a hasty retreat towards the door.

"I can't make any promises," she answered, her voice muffled as she wolfed down one last bite of toast. She swallowed quickly, and brushed a kiss against his cheek. "Love you," she said.

"Love you, too," he answered. "Now go!"

And so she did, running from their little rented flat to the bus stop, nearly hopping up and down with anxiety. She couldn't believe she'd done that; when Ruth had woken this morning, she'd had everything all planned out, she was going to be _early,_ for once, and somehow she was already running ten minutes behind. This always seemed to happen; her favorite professor at Oxford had spent years trying to break her of this habit of perpetual tardiness, before finally throwing up his hands and admitting defeat.

It wasn't that Ruth didn't care about being on time, it was just that between trying to get herself and Will and fed and dressed and out the door with everything they needed for the day, she'd felt overwhelmed for the last eighteen years. It was a lot to ask of one person, particularly one person who was so often sidetracked as she tried to finish one more chapter of whatever book she was reading, or field a question from Will about why squirrels had big bushy tails instead of long, thin ones like their cats did. True, there were fewer of those delightful non-sequiturs from her son these days, but by now she'd just resigned herself to the fact that she was going to be late for the rest of her life. _I'll probably be late to my own bloody funeral,_ she thought as she clambered onto the bus.


	9. Chapter 9

Harry sat at Ruth's kitchen table, talking quietly to her son. They'd rung the solicitor, who turned out to be a very helpful man indeed, given the fact that Harry had saved his life some years before – not that Will needed to know that, necessarily. The solicitor had agreed to help sort out Ruth's will, and to draw up a contract for them regarding the house. He'd advised them to have the locks on the doors changed as soon as possible before bidding them a cheerful farewell, and it was at that point that Harry realized something rather important.

At some point today, Section X was going to show up, and turn Ruth's house upside down. If they found Will here no doubt they'd have quite a few questions for the lad, and it was bound to reflect poorly on Ruth when the service discovered that she'd lied about her son. Harry supposed he could find some way to whisk the boy out of the house for a few hours, a day at the most, but what would that accomplish? Internal affairs were notoriously thorough, and this was his mother's house; he had his own room, and more than a few of his belongings were scattered about. Section X would realize someone else had been living here, and they would almost certainly come looking to Harry for answers.

What to do, then? How could Harry warn the boy about the imminent invasion of the house, without explaining that his mother had been lying to him for years about her work? That Harry himself, who had only stumbled across the lad the night before, had been lying through his teeth since the moment they met?

It was the classic spook's dilemma; who do you tell, how much do you tell them, and when do you make your move? Good instincts in situations like this were the only thing that had kept Harry alive for so long; a spook had to know when to lay his cards on the table, and when to pack them up and quietly run for the hills.

Will was bright, a bit suspicious but warming to Harry more and more with each passing second, and he had toed the line with his grandmother, and never revealed the truth about his mother's departure, even when Elizabeth was being truly horrible. It seemed he could be counted upon, to keep a secret. Harry had created a legend in haste the night before; perhaps that would be enough to see him through now, and over time, if Will continued to show himself to be a trustworthy sort, perhaps one day he could tell the boy everything.

 _But not today,_ he thought sadly. Today Harry was going to be a good spook, and lie some more.

"Will, there's something you should know," Harry said, shifting uncomfortably in his chair.

The young man sitting across from him adopted a tense, anxious sort of look so very like the one Ruth so often wore, and the sight of it, one of her little personality quirks shining brightly in the face of another, made Harry's heart sink even lower in his chest.

"As I told you before, your mother had to leave the country for her own safety. Officially, she's dead. I'm afraid there's a bit more to it than that."

Will's bright blue eyes narrowed warily at this.

Harry took a deep breath, and soldiered on. "She was accused of murder, Will. She didn't do it," he added quickly, when he saw the look of sheer terror that flashed across the young man's face. "But circumstances were arranged to make it look as if she had. At some point today, some people are going to come to the house and examine all of her belongings looking for evidence."

Will sighed, and ran his fingers through his shaggy hair. "Christ," he said softly. "She couldn't do the thing halfway, could she?"

 _No, that wouldn't be Ruth's way,_ he thought ruefully. Not his brilliant, stubborn mule; from the moment Mauldsley died she had thrown herself headlong into Cotterdam, and refused to be deterred, even for a second. For perhaps the thousandth time in the last twenty-four hours Harry found himself wondering what might have happened if he had followed his instincts, and insisted on coming inside when he dropped her off at home that night. He'd been so elated that she'd finally accepted a lift from him, and though in his heart he had wanted nothing more than to park the car and follow her up the walk and sit at this table and talk the whole mess through with her, he had hesitated, and she had slipped away before he ever had a chance to pursue her. If he had been with her that night, if she'd never gone round to Mauldsley's house, if Ros had never had cause to ring Mace, if, if, if. Sometimes it seemed that Harry's whole life was a minefield of _could have been_ and _never was_.

"What do I do, Harry?" Will asked him. They watched one another across the table, the spook and the student, and Harry couldn't help but remember the words he'd spoken to Ruth the morning before. _I don't know what I'll do without you,_ he told her, meaning every word. How much truer that must be for Will, this boy who'd never known a life without her. Could Harry shoulder some of his burden, help the boy in some way? With a start he realized he'd spoken more to Will in the last twenty-four hours than he'd spoken to his own son in over a decade, and he felt the cracks in his heart rupture that little bit more. _What good can I possibly do for him?_ Harry wondered.

"It's up to you," Harry said carefully. "I think you ought to be here, when they get here. It's obvious that someone besides Ruth lived here, and they'll go looking for you. I'm sure they'd find you, in the end. Better to be here, ready for their questions when they arrive. Once they're finished with you, though, you'll probably need to find somewhere else to stay, for a day or two at least."

Will nodded glumly. "My mates have all said I can come and stay with them. I'll be all right. But Harry, what are they going to ask me? What do I need to know?"

 _You need to know that your mother was a born spook, and one of the bravest women I have ever met._

"Actually, the less you know, the better. You can't forget what you never knew, and you'll look much less suspicious if your confusion is genuine."

There was something about the way the boy was looking at him, something calculating and uncertain, as if Will were wondering just what sort of man he was having tea with. _Shit,_ Harry thought. That little speech sounded much more MI-5 than DEFRA, and Will knew it.

"Will you be here, to help me with them?" Will asked quietly.

Harry wished like anything that he could be, but he knew exactly how that would look, Section X bursting through the front door to find the Head of Section D sitting in the house of a known traitor with a boy who wasn't supposed to exist. That had to be avoided, however much Harry might desire to protect Will from the coming inquest.

"I'm sorry, Will, but I can't. It would…reflect poorly, on me, and your mother. It would raise too many questions."

This drew a frown from his young companion. "Right, so you're just going to bugger off, then?" Will asked sharply.

It wasn't such an unexpected response, really. It was clear that Will had never had much in the way of family attachments; no father, a dreadful grandmother, an uncle who killed himself, a mother who loved him fiercely but had been taken from him so unexpectedly; of course Will would be cross, that Harry had offered him support and then withdrawn it so quickly.

"I won't be here for their investigation, no, but you have my number, and, for what's it worth, you're welcome to my spare room, as well. For as long as you need it."

If Will looked surprised, at this latest offer, it was nothing to how Harry felt, once he realized what he'd said. _Where on earth did that come from?_ He wondered. Did he really want Will to come and stay with him? Harry hadn't shared his home with anyone for nearly two decades, and now he was just suggesting Will come and stay with him like they'd known one another for years, like it was the most normal thing in the world. Perhaps it wouldn't be too bad, he mused, if the lad did come and stay for a while. Will wouldn't be alone, and Harry might have a chance to get to know him better, learn more about what things had been like for him, growing up with Ruth.

Before either of them could formulate a response, however, they heard the sound of a car door slamming out on the street.

Harry was on his feet in a moment, peering discretely through the kitchen window.

"Shit," he swore. "That's them. I've got to go. Listen, ring me, when they're done? I want to know that everything's all right."

Will squared his shoulders, and gave him a curt little nod. With that settled, Harry rushed out the back door and across Ruth's garden, cutting across her neighbor's grass and heading for his car. Old habits die hard, and he'd parked his car a goodly distance from Ruth's house, a fact for which he was profoundly grateful, just now. It was too close for comfort, this near miss with Section X, but Harry managed to evade them rather easily. As he settled behind the wheel of his car, his thoughts were focused solely on Will. How would he hold up to their questions?

 _Nothing to do but watch and wait,_ Harry told himself as he drove away. _That's the spook way._

* * *

Less than half a minute passed between Harry's abrupt departure, and the opening of the front door. In that time Will had risen to his feet, finished his tea, and taken one very deep breath. He had no idea what was coming, but of this one thing he was certain: Harry Pearce was not who he said he was. And if this man was some sort of shady… _something_ , some government agent or criminal or God only knew what, what did that make Ruth? Had Will been right to trust him? What the hell had his mum gotten herself mixed up in?

Two men dressed head to foot in white jumpsuits came traipsing into the kitchen, and stopped dead when they caught sight of Will. There was an almost comical moment of silence, then, as they all regarded one another warily, and then the house erupted into noise. In an instant Will found himself lying on his stomach with his hands crossed over the back of his head while a very angry man waved a gun in his face and demanded to know who he was.

"My name is William Evershed!" Will shouted. "This is my mother's house!"

The noise died down abruptly, leaving Will to stare cautiously up at the eight or so people who had gathered in the kitchen. They all looked about as confused as he felt, just now.

"On your feet, lad," one of the men said, stepping forward to help Will up. "There we are. Why don't you and I have a chat, William?" the man asked. He caught Will by the arm, his bony fingers digging into the flesh of his bicep, and marched him smartly into the sitting room.

Will dropped into his mother's favorite armchair, sitting with his hands on his knees, his heart pounding double-time in his chest. _What the hell is this?_ He wondered. They hadn't identified themselves as police, these strange people who had so suddenly invaded his home. The man sitting on the sofa across from him had a heavy square jaw and piercing black eyes, and for a moment Will fancied he could hear the wheels turning in the man's mind.

"So, you're Ruth Evershed's son?" the man prompted.

"Yes," Will answered. His mother had taught him long ago that if he ever found himself talking to the police, he ought to answer the questions he was asked, no more, and no less. That particular lesson had never really been useful, before now. Will hadn't exactly spent a lot of time getting into trouble with the law.

"Do you know what's happened?"

Will shook his head. "Someone rang my gran, yesterday, and said that she…died, but that's all I know." He didn't have to try very hard to sound scared and miserable; he _was_ scared and miserable.

The man nodded, as if this lined up with his own perception of events. "And did anyone tell you the circumstances?"

"No."

Another pause, here. Will felt as if the still-unidentified man were an actor in a play, reading from a script Will had never seen, taking a beat here and there and playing every line to its greatest effect. It was working rather well; Will was bloody terrified. _What are they going to do to me?_ he wondered. _Christ, Mum, what have you done?_

"Do you know where your mother was, on the morning of the third of August?"

Will racked his brains, thinking hard. _The third…six days ago…where was she six days ago? In the morning?_

"At work, I'd imagine," he answered slowly.

"And where did your mother work?"

"DEFRA," Will said at once. He was beginning to doubt the truth of that statement, but it was what she'd told him, and he knew no more than that. "She's an analyst there."

The man hummed a bit. "And you didn't notice anything odd about her behavior, over the last few days?"

She'd always been a bit odd, his mum, but no, he could honestly say he hadn't noticed anything out of the ordinary. Will had spent rather a lot of time with his mates, and she'd been working late, and maybe she'd been a bit…distracted, but he'd certainly had no idea that she was caught up in something terrible enough to end with her having to be spirited out of the country.

"She's been working a lot," he said, feeling that might be the best way to answer the question.

On and on it went, question after question, while the man refused to identify himself and his fellows began to tear the house apart. From his perch in the sitting room Will couldn't see what they were doing, exactly, but it involved a great deal of banging.

"All right, William, I think that's enough for now," the man said finally. "Until we've completed our investigation, we will be treating this house as a crime scene. I'm afraid you're going to have to find somewhere else to stay."

* * *

It was well past noon when Harry's mobile finally rang. He'd spent the remainder of the morning with Scarlet, sitting quietly on the sofa and staring at the telly. He hadn't bothered to turn it on; the blank screen simply gave his eyes some place to rest while his mind whirled with fear and doubt. Harry was dreading this call from Will, not knowing how much Section X would have told him. They'd built a fledgling sort of trust between them, during the brief time they'd spent together, and Harry had been hoping for a chance to build on that trust. Would it all be over before it even began?

"Pearce," Harry answered the phone gruffly, having once again not checked to see who was calling.

"Harry, it's Will."

 _Here we go._

"Will. All finished, then?"

"Yeah, they just threw me out of my own house. Thanks for the warning, by the way," the boy added in what Harry thought might have been a sarcastic tone.

"Do you have a place to stay?" Harry asked.

There was a beat here, as the boy paused to gather his thoughts, and Harry fretted incessantly.

"About that. I'm going to stay with one of my mates, but I want to talk to you first. Can I come round to yours?"


	10. Chapter 10

**A/N: I am going out of town for a few days, but I should have a new chapter for y'all by Monday. In the meantime, enjoy!**

* * *

By all accounts, Harry shouldn't have done it. He shouldn't have given the boy his home address. Will knew his name, had his mobile number, and was even now making his way across London by bus with Harry's home address in a text message on his mobile. To say it was a breach of security would be to make a rather careless understatement. And yet, the boy had asked, and Harry had found himself quite unable to deny him an opportunity to ask the millions of questions that must have been buzzing around his head.

By the time Will arrived, Harry had done a bit of cleaning and put the kettle on and was, at the moment the doorbell rang, standing in front of his kitchen cupboards wondering if there was anything even remotely edible inside for him to offer the boy for lunch. Somehow, Harry didn't think Section X had allowed him time to eat.

"Will," Harry said with a little nod as he opened the door.

Will did not respond; he brushed past Harry and stomped into the house, glowering rather aggressively all the while.

 _This is not going to be pleasant,_ Harry thought as he closed and locked the door. _What did they tell him? What does he know? Christ, have I cocked it up already?_

"Who are you?" Will demanded, rounding on him once they were standing face to face in the foyer. "I mean really, Harry, who the hell are you and who the hell are those people in my house and what the hell happened to my mum?"

"Maybe we should sit down," Harry said evenly, and with that he led the way into his sitting room.

Harry dropped wearily onto his sofa, and Scarlet immediately leapt up to take her place in his lap, giving his hand an affectionate sort of nibble before settling down. He scratched her behind the ears, watching the young man glaring at him from the doorway, and not for the first time he wondered how different his life might have been if he'd chosen a different path. He could have stayed in the Army, and lived out his life in a comfortable routine, with a clearly defined chain of command and an ironclad sense of right and wrong. He could have become a history teacher; he'd entertained the notion for a while, when he was at university. He could have gone into politics, the way Jane wanted him to – then again, perhaps not; just the thought of it made him shudder. The fact of the matter was there were a dozen different career paths he could have chosen, nice, normal occupations that wouldn't have required the secrecy, the lies, the sacrifices he'd damn near grown numb to over his many years of service. It had been years since he'd really thought about just how strange his life was, compared to the average citizen, but talking with Will brought it all back. Brought back memories of lying to his children when they were small, and the way his job ostracized him from them when they were older. _Was it worth it?_ He mused as he regarded Will quietly. _Have the victories been worth the price of the defeats?_ Surely their children deserved better, his and Ruth's; surely they deserved to know their parents fully, to know their foibles and their dreams, to hear their justifications, however feeble they might have been.

"Harry-" Will was about to start in on the whole business again, but Harry raised his hand, asking for quiet.

"Have you ever heard of the Official Secrets Act, Will?" Harry asked him softly.

The young man nodded slowly, a look of horrified comprehension dawning in his eyes.

"There's a copy of it here, on the table," Harry said, motioning towards the stack of papers he'd pulled out of the desk in his office before Will came round. "I can answer your questions, but it needs to be understood that what I tell you can go no further. To speak of this, to anyone, constitutes treason."

"Pull the other one, mate," Will scoffed, shaking his head.

 _Cheeky sod,_ Harry thought ruefully. It was a gamble, telling Will the truth, but Harry had a feeling it was the right thing to do. The boy was _Ruth's_ son, for Christ's sake, he deserved to know the truth, but more than that, he was whip smart, photogenic, and had been raised by one of the most intrepid researchers Harry had ever met; God only knew what the boy was capable of, should he decide to go digging. Perhaps a bit of truth, and a healthy dose of fear, might serve a dual purpose. Perhaps it would offer Will some reassurance, and, at the same time, buy his silence. Any good spook knew that every move was a gamble, and the trick was knowing when to bluff, and when to lay the cards on the table. The time had come, Harry thought, to place his bets.

"I'd like you to sign that please, Will," Harry said. "Read it, and remember that there are consequences, should you choose not to keep your silence. And when you're done, I'll tell you the truth."

 _Truth._ It was a powerful word, Harry had learned. People fought for the truth, died for the truth, devoted their lives to finding it, but in his world, truth was what he made it. Being a spook had often required him to adopt a legend, to rehearse it, memorize it until he could recite back the details of his false life with conviction. Spend too long inside a legend, however, and reality began to morph; how many times had he seen it happen to his agents, to himself, watched his own life fading as the lie took root deep within him, changing him, suiting him to its purpose? Truth, lie, right, wrong; none of it mattered, after awhile.

 _Your name is Harry Pearce,_ he told himself, as he watched Will pick up the paper, and begin to read. _You have two children, and a dog called Scarlet. You work for MI-5, you follow the cricket, and you love a woman called Ruth Evershed._ It was an exercise they taught new recruits, during training; _recite the details of your legend to yourself in quiet moments, say it over and over so that you can recall it at a moment's notice._ Harry had adapted the exercise to suit his own purposes, and often used it to remind himself, not of who was _meant_ to be, but who he _was_. After all this time, he occasionally needed reminding.

"Have you got a pen?" Will asked him when he'd finished reading.

Harry reached over to the little table beside the sofa, and pulled a pen out of a drawer, handing it off to the boy without comment.

 _Now, we shall see what we shall see,_ he thought as Will signed the page.

"Thank you," Harry said when he was done. "You may want to have a seat, this could take some time."

And so Will slumped into an armchair, and sat in rapt silence as Harry began to talk. He explained about Section D, the work they did and his position there, and then he moved on, telling the boy about Ruth's secondment, and how she'd thrived at Thames House. He did not include the details of Cotterdam, or Mace's dogged pursuit of him, or the fact that Ruth had sacrificed herself for Harry's sake; perhaps it was selfish, keeping that part back, but Harry couldn't quite admit to Will that it was his fault the boy had lost his mother. When Harry was finished, he folded his hands together in his lap, and waited for Will to speak.

"She lied to me," Will said softly, disbelievingly.

"She lied to protect you," Harry answered. "She thought you'd be better off, not knowing."

"She _lied_ to me," Will repeated, covering his face with his hands.

At this particular moment, Harry felt himself quite a loss for what to say. He'd thought that perhaps the sheer drama of his story might appease his companion, thought that maybe Will would think it was _cool,_ might be proud of his mother for her courage. The sheer dejection radiating from the armchair in the corner was quite unexpected, and Harry didn't entirely know what to do. He could rally his team in times of crisis, could offer a comforting word in times of grief, could offer sage advice in a moment of doubt, but this was an altogether more complex sort of emotion, the sort of thing he would ordinarily foist off onto Ruth. In the past, she had often picked up the slack for him, in the _pastoral care_ department, as Ros would have put it; when Danny had gone off the deep end, after Zoe's departure, it was Ruth who hauled him back from the brink, not Harry. Ruth would know what to say now, he thought, but Ruth was far, far away, and she'd left the pair of them to muddle through this alone.

"She promised me, when I was younger, that she would never lie to me," Will told him when he'd finally gotten hold of himself. The young man leaned back hard against the chair, as if wishing the cushions would swallow him whole. "She told me the truth about my dad, about…what happened, she never, ever pretended that things were all right when they weren't. I _trusted_ her and she lied to me."

"Would it have changed things, really, if you'd known?" Harry asked softly. He was trying very hard to stay focused on the conversation, and not get sidetracked by all the questions Will's confession had raised in his mind. _My dad...what happened…_ the way he spoke the words was heavy, and awful, and fear gnawed at Harry's heart.

"Of course it would have! I would have been more…I would have asked…" Will was struggling with it, but Harry knew the boy was slowly coming round to the exact realization Harry was hoping for. If Will had known what his mother did for a living, the only change that would have resulted in Will's life would have been a marked increase in the amount of time he spent worrying about her.

"She was brilliant," Harry continued on. "She was brave, and she saved thousands of people's lives. She stood up for what she believed in, and what she did mattered."

"And now she's gone," Will said.

Harry nodded glumly.

Silence reigned between them, as Harry struggled with his own remorse and Will slowly came to grips with this piece of his mother he'd never known before. It must have been a terribly confusing thing, Harry mused, to realize that someone he loved, someone he trusted, someone he thought he knew better than anyone else in the world, could have kept such a secret from him. Considering what Harry had learned about her, in the last twenty-four hours, he rather felt the same.

"Did you love her, Harry?" Will asked him in a quiet voice.

For a moment, Harry forgot to breathe. _Did I love her?_ How could he possibly answer that question, how could Harry say to Will what he'd never confessed to his mother? _I loved her, and she was damned for that love,_ he thought, but surely those words would only wound the boy. Or perhaps not. Perhaps they could find some common ground, given that they had both loved the same woman, albeit in very different ways.

Whatever Will's reasons for asking, Harry never got the chance to answer. His mobile began to ring, and he grimaced as he fished it out of his pocket, dislodging Scarlet and earning himself a disapproving look from the portly little dog in the process.

"Pearce," he barked into the phone. He was almost as thankful for the distraction as he was furious at the interruption.

"Harry, it's Adam." On the other end of the line, his Section Chief sounded tense, and Harry was immediately on high alert, fearing the worst.

"What's happened?" he demanded.

"Harry, I'm sorry, it's…it's Catherine."

Whatever he'd been expecting, it certainly wasn't this. Horror filled him, dread rising up in his chest, choking him, making it difficult to breathe, difficult to think. _Please God, not Catherine, too_ , he thought desperately; his little girl had been in Lebanon for the past few months, and he'd spent many a sleepless night on the Grid browbeating junior technical assistants into tracking her every move, assuring him she was safe and well. It had been several days since he'd last checked up on her, distracted as he'd been by Cotterdam. Had Mace and his cronies cost him his daughter, too? If something had happened to her, if she'd been hurt because his attention was elsewhere, Harry would never forgive himself.

On the other end of the phone, Adam was speaking in clipped, professional sentences, explaining that there had been a bombing in Beirut, and Catherine had almost certainly been present, but they knew no more than that. Harry was on his feet in an instant.

"I'm leaving now. I'll be at RAF Northolt in-" he checked his watch-"half an hour. Get me on a flight, Adam."

Adam started to protest, but Harry had already hung up the phone.

* * *

Whatever news Harry had just gotten, it looked to be pretty terrible; his face had gone white as a sheet, and from where he was sat Will could see that his hands were trembling.

"I'm sorry, Will, I have to go," Harry said. Will had gathered as much, from the demand he'd just heard Harry make.

That Harry had turned out to be some sort of government higher-up hadn't surprised Will, not really. It all sort of fit; he carried himself like the sort of man who knew a great many secrets, and who was willing to fight to protect them. It made sense, too, that he was also the sort of man who could just demand to be allowed on to a plane at a moment's notice, and expected it to actually happen. There was something about Harry Pearce, about the way he spoke, that seemed to suggest he wasn't used to being told _no._

Whatever disaster he was running off to tend to just now only mildly interested Will; he was much more concerned with learning more about his mum, and all the things she'd never told him, and he was frankly a bit cross that his interrogation of Harry had been cut short.

"Where are you going?" Will asked, rising from his chair to follow Harry, who had rushed from the room and was currently rummaging around in a cupboard.

"Lebanon," Harry grunted as he emerged, clutching a black hold-all.

"When will you be back?" Will demanded. _Trust a bloody spook,_ Will thought, _to cut and run right when things get interesting._

"I don't know," Harry sighed. "I've got to go, it's…my daughter, she…I've got to go."

It wasn't the most articulate of sentences, but Will was glad to have at least some explanation of where Harry was rushing off to.

"We'll talk when I get back," Harry said. He turned to make his way to the door, and promptly tripped over his little dog. Swearing, he righted himself at the last moment, and stood staring down at the animal with a grimace on his face. "Actually, Will, could you do me a favor? I need someone to look after Scarlet for a few days, and I haven't got the time to take her anywhere. Could you-?"

The question hung between them for a moment.

 _Is he serious?_ Will wondered. _Is there really no one else he could ask?_

"Yeah, sure, I'd be happy to," he said aloud.

Harry's shoulders sagged with relief. "Thank you. There's a spare key here," he motioned to a little hook by the door, "and the alarm code is 290470. I should only be gone a few days. Help yourself to whatever's in the fridge."

And just like that, Harry was gone, rushing down the front walk and into his car.

Will stood staring after him, mouth agape.

 _Why the hell is my mum's birthday the code for his alarm?_


	11. Chapter 11

**A/N: Right, so, it's taken me a bit longer to get back in the swing of things than I originally anticipated. I thank you for your patience, and I hope this chapter is worth the wait! A bit of a flashback for you, to the EERIE exercise.**

* * *

 _14 December, 2003_

Ruth stood in an out of the way corner of the Grid, clutching her mobile in her hand and taking very deep breaths, trying to calm the frantic stuttering of her heart. It seemed the world was coming to an end, as it had been threatening to do for years, and she was trapped here, stuck deep in the bowels of Thames House with no means of escape and no one to turn to for comfort. Sam was scared, Tom was anxious and wound tight as a spring, and Harry was dying.

 _Harry._

It didn't seem possible, didn't seem right, didn't seem bloody fair that Harry should be sat alone in the dark in his office, dying, all because he'd snuck off to the loo. The water was contaminated, the phone lines were down, the air was poison, and Harry was dying. Harry, the calm eye in the center of every storm; Harry, the fearless leader; Harry, the good-hearted man with the soft eyes and the gentle voice; Harry, whom she cared for, more than she ought to. What were they supposed to do without him? How the hell were they supposed to band together, carry on, when he was gone?

She shuddered as she recalled the way he'd looked the last time she saw him. The last time she would ever see him alive. Sweaty and pale, rocking slightly back and forth as he muttered the Beatitudes under his breath, looking half mad and deathly ill. Even now, he must be so lonely, so scared, and she longed to go to him. They were all going to die anyway, and if Ruth was going to die, she wanted to die giving comfort to those she cared for; she did not want to die scared and screaming.

Which was why she was standing in this corner, cradling her mobile in trembling hands. Will was home for Christmas, and just the thought of her son sitting alone in her little house while the world burned around him made her want to weep. She was his _mum,_ she ought to be with him, not stuck here in this miserable place, trying to pretend that what she did mattered. Mobile service was down; she had already tried to ring him, but the call hadn't gone through. She was utterly cut off from him, and for the first time since she'd joined MI-5, Ruth realized what it was she had done. This wasn't just a job; this was a sacrifice, a pledge that serving her country would come before every other obligation in her life, including her duty to her own son. Her heart longed to be home with Will, holding him close, shielding him from the horror raining down all around them, but she was _here_ , and she had no one to blame for that but herself.

"Did your call go through?" Danny asked her softly. Ruth nearly jumped out of her skin; she hadn't heard him approach.

"No," she responded in a shaky voice, dashing away her tears with the back of her hand.

"Trying to ring your mum?" Danny asked, sticking his hands in his pockets. He looked as sad and scared and small as she felt. As she looked at him she couldn't help but wonder; what good was Five, if something this catastrophic, if horror and madness on this scale, could be allowed to happen? What purpose had all the hours they'd spent in this dreadful, drafty building served, if the realm as they knew it had been utterly ruined in the space of a heartbeat? It put things into rather bleak perspective for Ruth, just then.

"No," she said, taking a shuddering breath. "My son."

There, she'd said it. There was no point, she supposed, in continuing the lie any longer. Britain was burning, and they would all be as dead as Harry in a matter of hours; what difference would it make now, if Danny knew the truth?

"I thought you said you had no one at home but your cats," he told her, trying and failing to smile. His eyes were huge and round and scared, and in them she saw reflected all the terrors of her own heart. "What's his name?"

"Will," she answered, feeling the tears return. "His name is Will, and he must be so scared, and I should be with him-" she had begun to panic, just a little, her voice rising slightly as hysteria took hold. Danny stopped her, though; he reached out, and grasped each of her arms in his hands, forcing her to look at him.

"He'll be all right, Ruth," Danny said forcefully. They both knew it was a lie, but he said it anyway, and she nodded. "We're working on this, we're going to come up with a plan. This is what we do. You'll see him again."

And then, rather surprisingly, Danny pulled her in for a hug. He held her for a long moment, and she tucked her face against his chest, trying valiantly not to cry. "It's going to be all right," she heard him murmur. "Will's going to be all right."

It was amazing, she thought, how much comfort could be derived from this simple sort of contact. Just having another human being to hold, another body to ward off the terrors of the dark, bolstered what little strength she had remaining. It had been a long, long time since anyone had held her, and she was grateful for it now. She would be brave, and she would be bold, for Will's sake, and for Danny's. She would soldier on, because she had no other choice. _This is what we do,_ she thought, _for the people we love. We keep fighting._

"Thank you, Danny," she whispered, wondering if he understood.

"No, thank you, Ruth," he answered, and she knew then that he did.

* * *

"You bastard," she swore, unable to contain herself. She was beyond angry, beyond furious; Ruth was bloody livid, and if he'd been standing any closer, she might well have slapped that stupid bloody grin right off his face. It had all been just an exercise after all, and all of her heartbreak, all of her tears, all of her mindless, hysterical panic over her son, had been for nothing. At this moment Will was probably fast asleep after having spent the night getting pissed with his mates, having no idea that his mum had spent the last few hours believing he'd died in an unimaginably horrific way.

And Harry was bloody _laughing._ He drew Zoe in for a hug, which Ruth had to grudgingly admit was a rather kind thing to do, given just how shaken Zoe appeared right now. Champagne appeared from somewhere, but Ruth found she had no desire to drink it. She couldn't take her eyes from Harry's face; he'd been rather convincing, playing the part of the dying man. So convincing, in fact, that she found her whole perspective on him had shifted. What kind of man, she wondered, could lie that effortlessly, that spectacularly? Ruth hadn't been entirely convinced of the threat of the VX, until she witnessed Harry's breakdown. His behavior had driven home the threat for her. And it had been a _lie._

Which led her to wonder what else he had lied about, could lie about, and whether she would ever know the difference. How could she ever trust this man again? He'd damn near tortured them, with this little stunt; Tom had been on the very brink of unraveling, had braced himself to commit murder, in the name of salvaging the operation, and it was Harry who had forced him there, just to see what he would do. It seemed cruel, and wrong, and…and _wrong._ Perhaps with time she would gain some perspective, would come to understand that the exercise was necessary, to test their mettle and their emergency response procedures, and no doubt the suits upstairs would have gained some valuable insight into the inner workings of Section D. From where she was standing now, though, it all seemed rather vicious and uncalled for.

And Harry was _laughing._

Danny came over to her, offering a small plastic cup of champagne. If anyone else had approached her in that moment she probably would have cursed at them and thrown the drink in their face, but she couldn't forget how kindly Danny had treated her, when she'd very nearly lost her nerve, and so she took the cup, and thanked him for it softly.

"Have you rung Will, yet?" Danny asked, watching as Zoe walked across the Grid, her mobile pressed to her ear as she spoke to her father and tried not to cry. The question was delivered very quietly, so quietly that Ruth was sure no one else had heard, but it made her heart sink in her chest, all the same. No one, not HR, not Harry, not anyone, knew about Will. She had protected him from them, had shielded herself from the questions she knew were sure to follow, had ensured that her background check would not raise any potential red flags, and then she'd thrown all that hard work away in an instant, in a moment of weakness. All because of Harry, and his stupid bloody games.

"No," she answered. "I don't want to frighten him. He doesn't need to know about all this." What would happen now? She wondered. Had she just lost her job? Would she really mind, if she had? GCHQ had certainly never put her through anything like this; perhaps Cheltenham hadn't been all that bad, in the end.

Danny nodded. "I won't tell anyone," he assured her. "I suppose you have your reasons." These words were spoken in a tone that seemed to suggest he didn't really want to know what those reasons were. "You deserve your privacy." He gave her shoulder a little squeeze, and just like that, he was gone.

 _Thank God for small mercies,_ she thought. At least she wouldn't have to worry about Danny running straight to Harry with the news. Though she had now added a VX attack to the list of things that would keep her up at night in the future.

The exercise was over, most everyone was finished with their champagne, and they had all been assured that they would be rostered off for the next 48 hours, to catch up on the sleep they'd missed. Ruth supposed now was as good a time as any to make her escape, but as she gathered up her coat, Harry announced that they were all off to the George for a liquid lunch, his treat.

 _It's the least you could do,_ Ruth thought bitterly. She shuffled off to the pods, and was quite surprised to find herself suddenly trapped in a tight space with Harry. She looked up at him sharply; he was smiling, but when he caught sight of her face his own expression fell, and he reached out, taking hold of her elbow and guiding her off to the side as they stepped through the pods. The rest of the team filed out past them, but Harry blocked them from view with his own bulk, looming over her as he spoke in a quiet voice.

"Are you all right?" he asked, genuine concern etched into his features. At least, it looked genuine to her; Ruth supposed she'd never really be certain what he was thinking, now that she knew what a consummate actor he was.

"Fine," she answered through clenched teeth.

"Ruth, you understand why I did it, don't you?" he was leaning towards her; she had the sudden, very irrational, not entirely unpleasant thought that he was close enough for her to reach up and kiss him on the mouth, if she wanted to. Which of course she didn't; at least, not just now. Not that she hadn't thought about it before, just that in that moment, what she wanted to do more than anything was to kick him in the shins for being such an arse.

"Something about team building and checking our state of readiness, I'd imagine," she said with a toss of her head that spoke all too clearly of her current state of frustration with him and the whole bloody business.

"I did it because I had to, Ruth," he told her. "I didn't have a choice. I don't want to see you suffer, and especially not because of me."

 _Truth or lie?_ She wondered, watching his face. He seemed earnest enough; there was something in his eyes, something soft and…could it be, hopeful? Her heart started to race; they were alone in the corridor now, and his face was just inches from hers, and she could feel the warmth radiating off him.

 _Stop this, now, stop; he's your boss!_

"I've got a phone call to make," she said.

Harry sighed, and took a step back from her. "Of course, don't let me keep you. You will join us, after?"

Ruth nodded, and Harry smiled before he turned and left her.

She watched him retreat, a thousand different emotions warring inside her as she fished her mobile out of her pocket. Without any conscious thought she found she'd dialed Will's number and was holding the phone up to her ear, the sudden sound of his voice cutting through her reverie.

"Mum? Are you all right?"

"I'm fine, love, I'm fine," she answered quickly. "I had a bit of a rough night. I just wanted to hear your voice."


	12. Chapter 12

For the next two days, Will was trapped in Harry's house, staring moodily at the telly as he waited for those unidentified agents to finish turning his mother's house upside down. At first, Will had thought that having some time alone in Harry's house might give him the opportunity to do a bit of snooping, to find out more about this strange man who had so suddenly burst into his life, but when it came right down to it, he just couldn't. Ruth had raised him to be kind and considerate and to respect other people's privacy, and he couldn't take advantage of the trust Harry had placed in him.

Not that there was all that much to discover, really. Will did a quick circuit of the house, on his first day, and he found no photographs, no briefcase, no pile of classified paperwork. He found a small, locked safe in Harry's office and all but bolted from the room, overcome with the sudden sensation that he could feel Harry watching him. There was a bit of art, none of it particularly expensive or revelatory. There was a fine collection of classical records, and an even finer collection of scotch, and rather a lot of books. Mostly they were old war anthologies and military texts, with a number of biographies and more than a few crime stories thrown in for good measure. All in all, though, the house was bland, and could have belonged to anyone. Will got the sense that Harry didn't spend a lot of time there.

Time was something Will had in abundance, just now. In a few days' time he'd return to Oxford, move into his little flat and take up his job at the bookstore once again. And wasn't that strange; his mother was gone, vanished into thin air, and yet all around him, life carried on. In a few days he would be back to his routine; he would go to class, go to work, see his mates, but he couldn't understand how that was possible. How was he supposed to move forward, when his every waking thought was of her? Will was terribly worried about her, wondering where on earth she was and if she were safe and if she had money enough to keep herself fed. On top of that, though, his mind was full to bursting with questions about her secret life as a spy.

Harry had assured him that she was just an analyst, albeit a brilliant one. Will had pressed the issue, though, not believing for a moment that she had been relegated to desk work only; why would she have had to leave the country, if she were just an analyst? Surely she must have done some real spy work at some point. Harry had grown terribly vague, though, and his hesitation to deliver a clear answer spoke volumes to Will. It seemed to him that she had been a real spy, after all.

Had she killed anyone? He wondered. Had she ever pretended to be someone else? Had anyone ever hurt her? Just the thought made him almost physically ill; she abhorred violence, and had even donated for years to a disarmament campaign. Who could want to hurt her, this woman who was forever bringing home stray cats and cried while watching old films? There was nothing cruel or hard or vicious about her, and he found himself wondering why she'd ever accepted the position with Five in the first place.

Those were questions he was never going to find the answers to, however. His mother was gone, and life carried on, even if he felt himself frozen in place.

Once he was finally allowed back in the house, Will found he could not sleep there. The first night he found himself tossing and turning, beset by terrible dreams. When he was small, Will had woken on more than one occasion and gone stumbling into his mother's room, only to find her lying awake in the darkness, weeping. She always stopped, when she caught sight of him, always gave him a watery little smile and shifted around so he could curl up beside her. At the time he had believed that she was afraid of the dark as he had been, that she needed him to keep her safe. Now, in his dreams, he could hear her crying, but though he searched and searched for her, he could not find her.

The dreams didn't visit when he slept in Harry's spare room, so he packed a bag and all but moved in, bringing with him rather a lot of beer and a host of ready meals. He camped out on Harry's sofa, and kept the blinds closed.

He visited his mother's house each morning, to feed the cats and collect the mail, but he spent most of his time alone in Harry's house, brooding over his mother and plotting his next move. His gran kept calling, but he refused to answer; Will had nothing to say to that wretched woman. His friends kept sending him texts, and though he assured them all that he was fine, he turned down their every offer of company. What could he possibly say to them? How could he begin to explain this? They all believed his mother was dead; the whole world believed she was dead, and though Will knew the truth, he had sworn not to tell a soul. So he drank, and he ate, and he cried a bit, and he took Harry's little dog on very long walks, and he waited.

In this manner he passed the time, one day after another, until Harry returned.

* * *

Lebanon was a bit of a nightmare for Harry. For the rest of his life he would never forget the moment he first saw Catherine, thin and pale and unconscious in a Hezbollah hospital, her French boyfriend hovering over her with an anxious expression on his perfectly chiseled face. Harry had gone through hell to get to her, alternately bribing and threatening and forcing his way through checkpoint after checkpoint until finally he made his way to his daughter's bedside. He couldn't quite shake the sense that this was somehow his fault, that somehow it was his own personal inattention that had resulted in his daughter's injury. The doctor explained the situation in broken English, and Harry had donated his blood on the spot, sitting in a chair and wincing slightly as they opened his vein. It was no great sacrifice; he would have given every drop of blood in his body to save her.

When she finally came round he nearly wept with relief, and she was so grateful to still be alive that she actually let him hug her. During the time he'd been waiting he'd gotten to know Fabian a bit, and he had been forced to reevaluate his initial assessment of the young man. It had been Fabian who pulled Catherine from the wreckage, Fabian who got her to the hospital and stood by her bedside night and day, making sure she got the best care available, as meager as it was. Yes, his hair was too bloody long and yes, he came from a long line of posh, snobbish Frenchmen, but his heart was kind and he clearly loved Catherine.

Harry pulled some strings and got all three of them out of the country at the earliest possible moment, but he did not breathe freely until they were back on British soil.

"Catherine!" Above the din of the airport, Jane's shrill voice carried well, and Harry heaved a sigh as he shouldered Catherine's bag, and led the way to Jane's side. Fabian was pushing Catherine in a wheelchair; her leg had been mangled in the attack and she would be unable to walk for several weeks yet, but she was lucky to have kept the limb at all.

"Oh, thank God," Jane cried when they reached her, bending over to wrap her arms tightly around her daughter's neck.

It was the first time in five years Harry had seen his ex-wife face to face.

She was still tall and rail-thin, still elegant and blonde as ever, though there were more wrinkles at the corners of her eyes than he remembered. Jane had always been lovely, and though time had changed her, it had not stolen that loveliness away. While she cried over Catherine, Harry shifted uncomfortably, uncertain as to what his role was now that he had delivered his daughter safely home. Always in the past Jane had kept him from the children whenever she could, had spewed vitriol at him every time they spoke and laid all the blame for every terrible thing that had ever happened to their family firmly at his feet. He was dirty and exhausted and in no mood for her games just now; as he watched, he took a few deep, steadying breaths and tried to remind himself to be patient. _Think of Ruth,_ he thought; usually she was enough to calm him, to help him find his center.

With a start he realized that he had barely thought of her at all, while he had been tearing madly through Lebanon looking for his daughter. The adrenaline had replaced every thought save one: _get to Catherine._ Now, though, the adrenaline was receding, and as it did, his guilt over what had happened to Ruth came rushing back to the surface. He would have loved to have shared this with her, to have unburdened his fears and heard her soft, gentle voice reassuring him. He would have liked, very much, to have found her waiting for him at the airport upon his return.

Jane had gotten ahold of herself, while Harry's thoughts had wandered, and she straightened up rather suddenly, giving him an odd look. Odd, because there was something dangerously close to affection in her eyes, and she had not shown him such warmth in decades.

"Harry," she said with a tired little grin. "You look terrible."

Her blue eyes were sparkling, but this did nothing to soothe Harry's tattered heart. As he looked at her he couldn't help but remember another pair of sparkling blue eyes, and he couldn't help but think that he would trade almost anything to be looking into _those_ eyes, instead of Jane's.

"Jane," he said, giving her a curt little nod. He didn't really trust himself to speak.

Before he realized what was happening, Jane had enveloped him in a hug. "Thank you," she whispered in his ear. "Thank you for bringing our girl home safe."

As she pulled away she dropped a kiss on his cheek, the brush of her lips bringing with it a wave of memories, each more painful than the last. He had loved this woman, once, and he had lost her. Funny, how events had a way of repeating themselves, over the course of a life.

* * *

It was late, when Harry finally dragged himself into his house. Scarlet scurried to greet him, her little claws scrabbling against the hardwood floors in her haste to reach him. He fussed over her for a few minutes; she was clean and appeared quite happy, so he supposed Will had kept his word and looked after her, for which Harry was duly grateful. It had been a comfort to him, knowing that he had managed to get at least this one thing right. To know that Scarlet, at least, would not suffer because of him.

He made his way up the stairs, stopping rather abruptly when he found the door to the spare room closed. Usually he left that door open, to keep the room fresh and to remind him to clean it on occasion, whether he used it or not. Moving as quietly as he could manage, he eased the door open, and peeked inside.

A shock of dark hair tumbling across the pillow was all he could see, but it was enough to tell him that Will was sleeping inside. Harry smiled a bit, and closed the door behind himself.

Perhaps he'd gotten this right as well, he thought as he headed for his own room. It was rather nice to come home to find someone else in the house, and rather nice to think that Ruth's son felt comfortable enough to sleep here. There were still many questions Harry didn't have the answers to, where the boy was concerned, but Will was not just a puzzle to be solved. He was a young man, a young man Ruth had raised entirely on her own, with his own fears and dreams and ambitions, and as Harry readied himself for sleep, he came to a realization. It didn't matter, really, where Will had come from or why Ruth had chosen to keep him a secret. Harry very much wanted to get to know him, and he wanted to be a part of the boy's life, if he could.

And it seemed he'd made a rather good start, at that.

* * *

Will woke to the tantalizing smell of frying bacon. For just a moment, he forgot where he was, and thought it must be his mother, making herself a bit of breakfast before heading off into work. But the truth slowly sank in; today was Saturday, Ruth was gone, and Will was in Harry's house.

He stumbled out of bed and into his clothes, taking a short detour to the bathroom before heading downstairs to greet Harry, and maybe, hopefully, pick up the thread of their conversation where they'd left off five days before. In the kitchen, Harry was dressed in trousers and a freshly ironed shirt, his jacket hanging off the back of one of the chairs, his tie draped over it. As Will entered the man turned, and gave him an apologetic little smile.

"I didn't mean to wake you," Harry said. "I've got to get to work. Are you hungry?"

Will nodded, and without another word Harry reached out and slapped a few more pieces of bacon onto the frying pan.

"Don't you need to rest?" Will asked. It was not quite seven in the morning, and Harry hadn't been home when Will had gone to bed around midnight the night before. _Does the man never sleep?_ Will wondered.

"No rest for the weary, I'm afraid," Harry told him.

"I was hoping we could talk a bit more." Will was trying not to whine, but really, he'd been going stir-crazy in this house for five bloody days, waiting for the chance to speak to Harry again, and he was rather cross at the prospect of having to wait for the answers he so dearly wanted.

"Maybe tonight," Harry said in a cagey sort of voice.

Will had often wondered it might be like to have a father. Someone to kick the football around, someone to talk to about the sort of problems he'd always hesitated to bring up with his mum. He'd never met his own father, nor did he want to, but he had wondered how his life might have been different, if his mum had had some help around the house. Most of his friends complained about how their fathers were never around, and how they were too uptight when they were. In his starched shirt and shiny shoes Harry reminded him forcefully of the way he'd always pictured those men, aloof and preoccupied. But still, it made for rather a domestic picture, Harry cooking breakfast and talking about work like they were just normal people, like they knew each other well.

"I've only got another week before I go back to Oxford," Will told him. "I've got to get my things together, and I still have some questions."

Harry sighed, and plated up the bacon. When he turned around again, Will got a good look at his face, noting the heavy bags beneath his eyes and the slump of his shoulders. Harry looked exhausted, but more than that, he looked a bit downtrodden, and Will found he felt a sort of compassion for this sad, strange man. They had both lost someone dear to them, and they were both trying their best to find their way without her.

"So do I," Harry said as he handed him a plate. "Eat your bacon."

They sat and ate in silence, and when Harry left for work, Will followed him to the door.

"Have a good day, then," Will said, shuffling a bit awkwardly in the entryway. Harry looked a bit surprised, and more than a bit pleased, as he answered. "And you. I'll see you tonight."

And with that he was off, and Will was alone. Again.


	13. Chapter 13

**A/N: This chapter gets a bit dark towards the end, and I feel compelled to include a warning for mentions of sexual assault.**

* * *

Harry could not recall a time in his life when he had been less focused on his work than he was the day he returned to the Grid after bringing Catherine home from Lebanon. His desk was buried beneath a veritable mountain of paperwork waiting to be signed, and the list of calls to be returned was so long that he found himself fighting the very childish urge to simply toss all the bloody messages into the bin, and set them ablaze. The thoughts that swirled through his mind had nothing to do with active operations or appeasing the Home Secretary in the wake of his rather sudden leave of absence; instead Harry found his thoughts careening wildly from Catherine, currently resting comfortably in her mother's home on the other side of the city, to Will, currently doing God only knew what in Harry's house not so very far away, to Ruth, his bright, brilliant Ruth, taken from him before he'd ever had the chance to truly make her his.

Always before Harry had managed to divorce himself from his personal feelings, and move forward with his spook-mask firmly in place. There was no time for grief, no time for worry, no time for paternal affection when he had a nation to save, and so he had never before allowed himself an opportunity to wallow in the misery of his own life. Now, though, his personal life had overtaken everything else, and his focus was decimated by the frantic pounding of his heart in his chest.

"Harry?" the sound of Zaf's voice cut through his disjointed musings, and with a heavy heart, he dragged himself back from the meandering journey his thoughts had taken.

"Mr. Younis," he said, gesturing for the young man to come inside and have a seat. Harry felt himself utterly awash in young people at the moment; first Zaf, then Jo, then Will, then Catherine. At this particular moment, watching Zaf watching him with apprehension practically radiating from his pores, Harry felt himself completely at a loss as to what to do with them. How could he guide them, how could he help them, when he felt so confused and lonesome himself? They all looked to him for counsel, looked to him for answers, and he feared what would happen, when they discovered he had none.

"I'm worried about Will," Zaf confessed. "I've gone round to Ruth's every day since Section X left, and I haven't seen him. I've no idea where he is. I was going to ask Malcolm to run a trace on his phone, but…." There was no need for Zaf to finish that sentence. Clearly he'd come to the same conclusion that Harry had, the conclusion that it would be wholly inappropriate to bring Malcolm in on this particular operation just now. Harry took some comfort in that; _it's a poor spook who can't keep a secret_ , he thought, _and Zaf is one of the best._

"He's been staying at mine," Harry told him, willing himself not to shift around guiltily in his chair or look away from Zaf's incredulous gaze. So he'd offered the boy a place to stay; that was nothing to be ashamed about. Even if it went against every protocol he could think of, even if it smacked of the desperate flailings of a lonely man trying with all his might to hold on to the woman he loved, the woman who'd left him far behind.

"Is that wise, Harry?"

 _Good God, no._

"The lad needed a place to stay and I needed someone to look after Scarlet," he said with a shrug, trying his best to appear nonchalant about the whole thing. There were so many things Zaf didn't know, Harry thought as the silence stretched between them. Zaf didn't know about that night at Havensworth, or the kiss he'd shared with Ruth before her departure. He didn't know about Harry's fractured relationships with his own children, didn't know about the son Harry hadn't spoken to in years. And in the midst of all of the things Zaf didn't know, what he _did_ know was still enough to make him suspicious of Harry and his motives. _It's a poor spook who places his trust in other people,_ Harry thought grimly.

"I've been trying to find out more about his father," Zaf said after a time. "Whoever he is, he ought to know what's happened."

"And what have you found?" Harry asked, drumming his fingers on the desktop. The staccato sound his hands made as they tapped against the polished wood spoke of irritation and impatience, and Harry hoped it would hide the anxiety that had welled up within him at the mention of the words _his father._ However much Harry might feel obligated to the boy, he was not bound to him, not truly; that honor belonged to another man, and the knowledge of his own irrelevance in Will's life sat heavy as a stone in his chest.

"Absolutely nothing," Zaf admitted. "I managed to turn up a copy of his birth certificate, but there's no father listed."

The more Harry uncovered about this secret Ruth had strived so hard to bury, the more confused, and the more concerned, he became. To him she had always represented everything that was good, everything that was kind, everything that was hopeful about humanity itself, but the details he had ferretted out regarding her life before MI-5 had all been harsh and cruel and shockingly primal. The fact that she had managed to disguise her struggles spoke to a level of duplicitousness he had never before considered her capable of. Oh, she could be depended upon to play a role when the safety of the realm was at stake, but to do so for personal reasons had always seemed a bit too… crude, for her.

"She really never told you about him?" Zaf pressed.

The question cut him to the quick. Harry knew all too well that in the halls of Thames House his relationship with Ruth had been a popular topic for discussion, as everyone seemed to have their own opinion about what was or was not happening between them. What must Zaf have thought about them? Harry wondered. What sort of intimacy had he attributed to them, and how confused must he be to learn that Ruth had declined to share her burdens with him? How… _pathetic_ must he look now? He certainly felt pathetic, as he sat there worrying about her safety and mourning the loss of her companionship and sulking, just a bit, over being left out of her confidences. Whatever he was feeling, Harry knew he could not share his heart with Zaf. There were certain lines that ought not be crossed, between a Section Head and his agents. He'd crossed those lines with Ruth, and they had both paid the price for it.

"No, she didn't," Harry answered abruptly. "Enough about that. Tell me about the Saudis."

And just like that, equilibrium was reestablished. However fond he might be of them, Harry knew better than to treat his agents like friends. These people had to be willing to follow his orders without question, to march straight to the gates of hell itself for no other reason than that he told them to, and he could ill afford to have them doubting him, all because they'd discovered that he was only human, after all.

* * *

Will spent the day at his mother's house, tidying up and trying to begin getting his things in order for the move back to Oxford. The solicitor Harry had hired for him had been most helpful; from the house to the car to his bloody interfering grandmother, the solicitor had managed all the details of Ruth's estate with ease, and had assured Will that he wouldn't have to pay a single pound for it. Will couldn't quite bring himself to plan a funeral; there was no body to bury, and precious few people to mourn her, and it all felt sort of wrong, anyway, standing around and weeping for his mum when he knew she was alive and well, albeit very far away. Elizabeth had been bloody furious, when she discovered that he wasn't planning to hold a memorial service, and so had set out to have one of her own. Will wished her well; he knew that service would be full of people who had never met his mother, never known her, just the sort of clingy, sharp-nosed batty women his gran seemed to attract, circling like vultures, preying on the grief of their acquaintances. Let them have their party, then; he didn't want to have anything to do with it.

That evening he found his way back to Harry's, armed with a pizza and quite a lot of beer. Harry had said perhaps they could talk, when he came home from work, and Will was dead set on doing just that.

Minute by minute the evening passed him by, with no sign of Harry, and Will's anxiety only grew. Where was he? What was he doing? Was he trying to avoid this conversation? The questions seemed to breed like some sort of nefarious hydra in the back of his mind, each one spawning a hundred more, until Will thought he might well go mad beneath the weight of his own worry and uncertainty.

When Harry finally arrived home, Will felt equal parts relieved and embarrassed; relieved, to find himself no longer alone, to have a chance to speak to Harry, and dreadfully embarrassed at the state he'd managed to work himself into in the man's absence.

"You all right, mate?" Will asked as Harry dragged himself into the house. Harry looked dead on his feet; he'd left at 7:00 in the morning, and it was getting on towards 9:00 now; surely he didn't regularly work such long days. Did he?

Harry just grunted. "Is there any of that pizza left?"

Will shuffled off to the kitchen to retrieve a plate for Harry's supper, while Harry lingered in the entryway, relieving himself of his jacket and tie and quietly submitting to Scarlet's enthusiastic affections.

Once the pizza was plated up and the dog had been appeased, Harry and Will settled down in the kitchen together, each of them clutching a bottle of beer and trying not to stare at the other.

Over their last few conversations, Harry had answered most of Will's more pressing questions. Where his mother had gone, and why, and what she'd been involved in that had necessitated such a hasty departure; these were all details that had been exposed and lingered over until Will was sick of thinking of them. The question of Harry's affection for Ruth had been addressed, too, albeit much more obliquely; he'd given himself away, with the code to his alarm and the book of poetry and the offer of sanctuary he'd extended to her son. The queries that remained to him now were of a slightly more delicate nature; Will wanted to know if this was the first time his mum had been in danger, and he wanted to know why Harry had never taken her out again, and he wanted to know what the hell he was supposed to do, now that he was, for all intents and purposes, completely orphaned.

"There's something I need to ask you, Will," Harry said, finally shattering the silence that had swelled between them as he ate his cold pizza.

Ah, yes, now Will remembered; Harry had told him he had questions of his own, and it seemed that now the tables had turned, and it was Will who would have the opportunity to dispense information if and when he saw fit. Given everything that he'd learned so far, it seemed to Will that Harry had taken a great risk, in confiding in him, and though he feared he knew what Harry was about to ask, he was determined to be just as bold in his honesty as Harry had been.

"Should I ring your father, and tell him what's happened?"

 _For a spook, he talks like a bloody politician,_ Will thought. The question had been artfully phrased; Harry hadn't asked who his father was, or where he was, or made any one of a hundred other crass, invasive inquiries. By approaching the matter in this way, he'd left it up to Will, to determine how much information he was willing to give.

Historically, when it came to the matter of his father, Will gave no information at all, to anyone. And why should he? He'd never known the man, had hated him for twenty-one years for what he'd done, had wept in the night when the thought that he was bound by blood to such a monster became a weight too grievous to bear. Time and time again his mother had assured him that the measure of a man was not based on where he'd come from, but rather where he chose to go. _Just look at my mum,_ she'd say, brushing his tears away with a gentle hand. _She's awful, isn't she? And I'm not so bad, am I? You're nothing like him, Will._

"No," Will said. "You don't need to ring him. I don't even know his name."

* * *

Harry tried not to let his surprise show on his face. How could it be, he wondered, that the boy didn't even know his own father's name? Doubt and fear gnawed at him; they'd skirted around the topic a time or two before, he and Will, and Harry had a pretty good idea of what he could expect to hear, should Will choose to confide in him. That didn't make it easier; if anything, knowing what was coming only made him feel worse, made him feel helpless and small and unbearably sad.

"He raped her," Will said quietly, staring into his beer. "She was fourteen, and he raped her."

Harry's heart shattered into a thousand pieces at those words. He'd thought he was prepared, thought he'd seen enough horror in his life to bolster his reserve and steady his nerves in the face of such a confession, but in the moment, he was reduced to soundless fury and boundless grief. _Fourteen,_ he thought, feeling stunned and disturbed in equal measure. The image of Catherine at that age rose up in his mind unbidden, all knobby knees and pimples and bright smiles, a child one moment and a young woman the next, uncertain and hopeful by turns. _Fourteen._ How terrified must she have been? He felt certain she'd received no comfort from her mother, and the thought of Ruth, the child she had been, having to face the sheer horror of what had happened to her, having to spend each day feeling her son growing inside her, a living, breathing reminder of what had happened to her, made him want to weep. Made him want to find this man, and kill him painfully slowly, to use his own hands to tear and rip and shred until the earth was free from such a monster.

"She said she didn't know who he was. She was walking home from the library one night, and…"

It was clear the boy could not find the strength to continue telling his tale, and Harry was not about to force him. There were some things, he decided, that he simply didn't need to know. Taking a deep breath, Harry leaned around the corner of the table, and gave the lad's shoulder a gentle squeeze.

There were no words he could say that would have made this moment any easier to stomach, for either of them, and so Harry did not patronize the boy, and assure him that it was all right. It bloody well wasn't all right, and Harry knew it.

"She turned fifteen in April, and I was born in June," Will explained, still refusing to meet Harry's gaze.

 _Graham was born in June,_ Harry thought in a daze. Harry himself had been on the Grid, the night his son was born. The whole night, actually; some PIRA nonsense had kept him tied up, and Jane's mother had come to their house to look after Catherine while Jane was in hospital. In the morning he'd gone round to the house and collected Catherine, stopping long enough to wash the blood from his hands and change his shirt, and then he'd taken her to visit Jane and her new baby brother. Catherine had not been impressed.

Who had been with Ruth, when her son was born? Was she alone, as Jane had been? Had she been surrounded by no one but a few nameless doctors and nurses, offering her encouragement as she bled and cried and struggled? Had her mother been hovering by her bedside, spouting vitriol and poison?

 _She was barely fifteen._

"Thank you for telling me," Harry said, when he finally managed to unstick his tongue from the roof of his mouth. "That can't have been easy for you."

Will lifted his eyes from his beer, those eyes as bright and blue as Ruth's, and for a moment Harry studied his features, picking out all the little pieces of the woman he loved that he could see reflected in that face. Whoever Will's father had been, he'd left precious little of himself behind in his son, and Harry was deeply grateful for that fact.

"She's been through so much," Will said, and though his eyes shining, he refused to let a single tear fall. "It just isn't fair."

"No," Harry sighed. "It isn't."

* * *

For the last week of his break, Will stayed at Harry's house. They eat breakfast together in the mornings, and Harry brought home takeaway meals for supper. They talked about Oxford, and about Will's courses and his job at the bookshop. They did not talk about Harry's job, or Will's father, and when the week was done, Harry loaded all of Will's things into the back of car, and drove the boy to uni himself.


	14. Chapter 14

_18 June, 1985_

They were all crammed into the delivery room, Ruth and her mother and three tired nurses. The doctor had rushed out for an emergency across the hall some fifteen minutes before, and they had not seen hide nor hair of him since. It was so late as to be early, the sun threatening to rise outside the little window in the corner. She'd been at this for hours now, having rushed to the hospital earlier in the night when the contractions first started.

The nurses had been surprised, at first, when they walked into the room and discovered that their latest patient was fifteen years old and terrified, but to their credit not a one of them had utter a single disparaging remark about her age. Ruth was grateful to them for that; she wasn't sure could bear telling the whole beastly story again, not when she was gripped by fear and doubt and pain.

And oh, but there was pain.

 _I'm going to die_ , Ruth thought in a panic, _I'm going to die. I can't do this._

"Christ, it hurts," she gasped through her tears, her fingers curled into the sheets as she sagged in the aftermath of yet another contraction. Nothing she'd learned had really prepared her for this moment; yes, she knew it was going to hurt, but before this started, she'd had no idea just how much. Never in her life had she experienced pain on this scale, and it showed no signs of stopping. She was sweaty and exhausted, mentally and physically, and she was certain there was no way she was going to make it through this ordeal alive. Her tears fell all the harder, as she thought about her baby, and what would happen to him without her there to protect him.

"Watch your language," her mother snapped. "And get ahold of yourself. Women do this every day. If you want to be an adult so badly, Ruth, it's time you start acting like one."

The nurses exchanged a frank look, their faces clearly showing how much they disapproved of Elizabeth's attitude, and if Ruth hadn't been so bloody scared and so bloody tired, she would have laughed.

"Shut up," she groaned, fighting the urge to scream as she felt the tell-tale pain of another contraction roaring to a crescendo inside her distended belly. Ordinarily, Ruth never would have dared to speak to her mum in such a way, but pain had dulled her senses, and exhaustion had taken its toll, leaving her waspish and completely unable to control her tongue.

"Ruth Catherine Evershed-"

"Please," Ruth said, turning away from her mother and reaching out to grab the nurse closest to her by the arm. "Please, can you make her leave?" This was hard enough as it was; Ruth didn't think she could endure another moment of her mother's wretched invectives.

The nurse was young, maybe in her early twenties, and she wore her soft blonde hair pulled back in a tight ponytail. This particular nurse had been by Ruth's side from the moment she'd first arrived at the hospital, and over the last seven or so hours, Ruth had come to depend on her. She didn't even know the woman's name, but right now it was this nurse Ruth wanted helping her through, and not her bloody awful mother.

"Ma'am, you need to go," the nurse said, giving Ruth a little smile before she began to physically herd Elizabeth from the room.

"I beg your pardon?" Ruth's mum shrieked. "I will not-"

"You're upsetting her, and that's not good for her or the baby. The most important thing is that we keep her comfortable and calm, and you're making things worse. Please, leave."

The other two nurses banded together behind their coworker, joining forces to see that Elizabeth was shunted from the room as quickly as possible, despite the ever-increasing pitch of her protests. In the wake of her departure, all three of them took a deep breath as they enjoyed a moment of blissful quiet.

"You all right, love?" the blonde nurse asked as she made her way back to Ruth's bedside. She reached out and smoothed Ruth's hair back from her face with a gentle hand. Ruth had dared to hope, before tonight, that perhaps the reality of her labor might encourage such a response from her own mother, but she had been sorely disappointed.

"I can't do this," Ruth moaned, her back arching as her whole body seized up and the pain ripped through her again.

"Yes you can, love," the nurse said. "You can. You're doing quite well, so far. We're nearly there. Is there someone else you'd like to be in the room with you?"

 _My father,_ she thought. _I want my dad._ It had been four years since his passing, but her heart still ached for him, his steady presence, his soft voice, his gentle eyes. It was just so bloody _unfair_ , that he was gone while her mother remained. Even in this moment, when she felt as if her whole body was tearing in two and the sheer panic of the impending arrival of her baby left her trembling, Ruth felt guilty for daring to think such a thing, but it was true. She would have given anything, just then, to trade one parent for the other.

"Peter," she gasped. "I want Peter."

The nurse nodded. "I'll be right back, love."

For months, Ruth had done everything she could to prepare herself for this day. Her father had taught her as a child that the answer to any question could be found in a book, should she take the time to search for it, and she had taken his advice to heart. Faced with the prospect of having to give birth, she had consumed every piece of literature she could find on the subject. Peter had gone to the library for her, and brought home bag after bag, bulging with the weight of untold numbers of books, and together they had poured over them, learning about the process of birth and child rearing, while her mother rolled her eyes and gave her pamphlets on adoption. Elizabeth had been adamant that Ruth ought to give up the baby, but for the first time in her life, Ruth had refused to follow her mother's orders. She was too young to have a child, she was scared out of her mind, and she had nightmares that woke her screaming in the dead of night, but this was her bloody baby, and she was keeping it, Elizabeth's wishes be damned.

Ruth knew this was going to be hard. For months she had thought about the future and quailed, as she imagined herself trying to raise a baby and finish school at the same time. Getting help from Elizabeth was like getting blood from a stone; it was Peter who had shuffled her to and from her doctor's appointments, Peter who had promised to help her when the baby woke screaming in the dead of night, Peter who sat up with her and talked about names and how they were going to make this all work. She shuddered to think what might have happened to her, if he hadn't been there to shield her from her mother's wrath, to help her through when it all became too much.

And in a moment he was there, shuffling into the room behind the blonde nurse, his hands tucked in his pockets and a worried expression on his face. Dear Peter, who at seventeen was already sporting a beard and a shock of wild brown hair, his shoulders broad and strong, his eyes warm and brown and kind.

"Are you the father, then?" one of the nurses asked him.

He and Ruth exchanged a guilty look; he had confessed to her weeks ago that he wished he were, wished he could take that pain away from her, wished he could truly claim some responsibility for this burden she had to bear.

"My brother," Ruth gasped, holding out a hand to him. Peter was by her side in an instant, and she gripped his hand so tightly she saw him wince. He never complained, though; that wasn't his way.

"All right, rabbit?" he asked her in a quiet voice. He'd called her _rabbit_ from the first time they met, three years before; he'd surprised her, when she walked into the kitchen and found him sitting at the table with his father, and she'd all but bolted from the room. _Like a startled rabbit,_ he'd said, and the name had stuck.

"Promise me, Peter, if anything happens to me, you won't let her near him," Ruth begged him. She didn't need to tell him which _her_ she was talking about; Peter knew better than anyone how awful Elizabeth could be, having been on the receiving end of her vitriol more often than anyone else in the house. "Promise me."

He shot a worried glance at the nurse, but she just smiled.

"I told you love, you're going to be fine. We're nearly there. Now, brother, I've got a job for you." The nurse reached out and steered Peter behind Ruth, and placed his hands on her shoulders. "I need you to help her push, all right? We're nearly there."

And so Ruth and Peter brought little William James Evershed into the world together. She strained and wept and screamed and bled, and he stood steady behind her, a solid weight for her to rest against, encouraging her when her all her strength had fled.

The sound of her son's cries filled the room, and Ruth buried her face in Peter's shoulder as he held her close.

"You did it, rabbit," he told her, kissing her temple gently. "You did it, you're all right."

"It's a boy," the blonde nurse said, smiling. "Do you want your brother to cut the cord?"

Ruth looked up at Peter through tear-soaked lashes. For the last nine months he had been the only one who believed her, the only one who supported her, the only one she trusted. Maybe he wasn't her baby's father, not really, but he'd done everything a father should, and him only seventeen years old. "If you want to," she said, smiling despite her fatigue when she saw how his face lit up at those words.

It was over in a moment, and then the nurse was handing Ruth a little blanket-wrapped bundle, and she reached out with trembling hands to hold her son for the first time. He was red-faced and squalling, though he quieted as she held him. He had a dusting of fine, dark hair, and a disgruntled sort of expression on his wrinkled little face, but Ruth thought he was quite the most beautiful thing she'd ever seen. The pain was still with her, but it seemed unimportant now, fading into insignificance as the reality of the situation finally hit home.

 _This is my son,_ she thought faintly. This tiny person was her responsibility, without reservation, without recourse, forever. She would have to feed him and change him and keep him safe, and she had no idea where to even begin. Beside her Peter perched on the edge of the bed, wrapping one strong arm around her shoulders and smiling down at the baby.

"What do you think, Ruth?" he asked her softly. "Does he look like a William?"

She'd only decided on a name a few days before. _William,_ meaning _strong-willed warrior;_ she'd named him for Shakespeare, for Yeats, for William the Conqueror, named him in the hope that he would live up to this legacy, that he would be brave and strong and capable of facing the hardships life was sure to throw their way. And _James_ , for her father, in the hope that he would be as good and kind and true as that dear man she'd loved so well.

"He does," she sighed, leaning back against Peter's reassuring bulk.

"All right, then." He leaned forward, so his face hovered just above the bundle she clutched in her arms. "Hello, Will," Peter said with a smile.


	15. Chapter 15

"Right, well, I think that's the last of it," Harry said, trying to hide the fact that he was feeling rather winded, after helping Will lug most of his possessions up three flights of stairs and into his rented flat. They'd spoken little on the drive to Oxford; there didn't seem to be very much to say, and now that all of Will's things were safely ensconced in his new home, there didn't seem to be much point in Harry sticking around. Somehow, though, he couldn't quite bring himself to make his escape. He'd spent a great deal of time over the last few days in the lad's company, and the thought of coming home to an empty house was not a pleasant one. In the back of his mind Harry was worried about Will, about how he'd cope, now that he was on his own again, and he couldn't leave until he was sure that Will was all right.

"Thanks, mate," Will said with an easy grin. There was literally not a single other person on the planet Harry Pearce would have allowed to refer to him as _mate;_ coming from Will, though, he didn't mind it so much.

"You have everything you need? Haven't forgotten anything?" Harry asked, giving the flat another once-over. It was already full of the sort of bland, hastily assembled furniture that seemed so characteristic of student housing, and Will's bags were piled haphazardly on the bed in his room. When they first arrived, Harry had noted that the flat had three bedrooms, and Will had explained that his flatmates would be joining him later in the day. Harry wanted to be out before they arrived; there was no easy way to explain who he was or what he was doing there, and he didn't relish the thought of having to step into a legend, when he and Will had just reached a point of understanding with one another.

Will shrugged at his question. "If I missed anything I'll pop round to the shops later. Should be fine."

"Right," Harry said.

They both shifted uncomfortably, Will with his hands in his pockets, Harry holding his own clasped behind his back, neither of them looking at the other. What to say now? How to express his gratitude, at having been allowed to be part of Will's life, his intention to continue to serve in whatever capacity Will would let him, his concern for the boy? No words came to mind, nothing that could encompass everything they'd been through, since the day Ruth left them.

"I just want to say…thanks, Harry, for everything." It was Will who broke the silence, reaching out to shake Harry's hand. _The lad's got a good firm grip,_ Harry thought approvingly. As much as it had shocked him, to learn of Ruth's deception and this young man's existence, Harry had found at every turn that Will was strong and kind, and Ruth's gentle influence seemed to seep from his very pores. _She must be so bloody proud of him._

"It was the least I could do," Harry responded, meaning every word. It _was_ the least he could do, looking after Ruth's son, helping him through this ordeal, when Harry couldn't help but feel that the blame for her exile rested squarely on his shoulders. Mace and his ilk had orchestrated the plot that had taken Ruth from him, but Harry knew that it was his own carelessness that had put her at risk in the first place. Losing her was another mistake, one of many, he would never, ever forgive himself for.

"Would you like a cup of tea, before you go?" Will asked. "There's a kettle around here somewhere."

 _How very English. Sweet tea._

"I'd like that," Harry said with a smile. Together they trooped into the kitchen, where Will started rummaging through the cupboards.

As Harry watched him, Harry found his thoughts drifting toward his own son. He had never had the opportunity to help Graham get settled in at university; Graham had never gone. As smart as he was, Graham had always turned his nose up at any sort of organized institution, and bucked authority at every turn. Even if he had attempted to attend, Harry was certain he'd have been chucked out on his ear for arguing with his tutors. Arguing with people was one of Graham's favorite pastimes.

Another explanation for Graham not attending university, of course, was the drugs. Just thinking about it made Harry feel almost physically ill; his own son, sucked into such a world of darkness, rubbing shoulders with the worst sorts of people, in and out of trouble with the police, desperate and broken by his addiction. It was unconscionable, but this was the reality Harry lived with every day. Another failure to lay at his feet, another reminder of just what he had sacrificed, in spurning his family and focusing instead on his career. He often lay awake at night, wondering if things might have been different, if _Graham_ might have been different, had he been more of a father to the boy.

Across the room, Will let out a triumphant little cry as he emerged from beneath the sink, holding a dusty kettle and box of teabags.

Harry smiled at him indulgently. Then again, perhaps Graham's troubles weren't entirely his fault; Will had never had a father at all, and he turned out all right.

"What will you do, when you get back?" Will asked him as he started up the kettle.

Harry heaved a sigh. He couldn't well explain all the troubles they were having with the Saudis; they'd only just managed to bring Ros home, after the siege at the embassy, and tensions were high. The threats from AQ were off the charts, and Harry was planning to go straight to the Grid upon his return from Oxford. He likely wouldn't see the inside of his house for at least a week.

"I've got rather a lot of work to be getting on with," he said, deadpan.

Will raised an eyebrow at him. "Don't you ever get tired of not being able to talk to people about what you do? I mean, what do you tell your friends?"

 _What friends?_ Harry wondered. His social life was a bit dismal, at present; his closest friend, as far as he could figure, was Malcolm. On top of that rather depressing fact, it had been three years since he'd seen a woman, in any capacity, be it as a steady romantic partner or a frantic, one-night fling- with the exception of Ruth, who was the cause for that drought in the first place. How could he have sought shelter in the arms of any other woman, when Ruth was waiting for him on the Grid? And now she was gone, and Harry could not imagine carrying on without her.

"I spend a lot of time talking about cricket," Harry said lightly.

"What about your kids?" Will asked as he handed Harry a mug and took a seat across the table from him. They'd spent a great deal of time sitting at kitchen tables together, he and Will, and Harry found he liked the quiet domesticity of it. It should have seemed strange, sharing a cup of tea with his employee's son, but instead it felt…rather normal.

"They know what I do, but we don't talk about it." And how could they? His children hated him for choosing the country over them, and they were less interested in discussing the realities of his life than discussing his own failures as a parent. Catherine was coming around, though; her brush with Five during the November Committee disaster and Harry's dashing rescue when she was embroiled in the violence in Beirut had both served to open her eyes to the danger, and the necessity, of his work.

Behind him Harry heard the sound of the door opening, and was on his feet in an instant, all his old spook instincts kicking in as his body tensed up and his hands rose at his sides, clenched into fists as if he were preparing to fight.

"It's all right, mate," Will said, giving him a funny look. "It's probably just Mark."

And it was. Mark was a young man whose blonde hair was very nearly as long and unkempt as Will's, and he stormed into the flat with both of his parents in tow. His mother was hovering and his father kept checking his mobile. Mark and Will greeted one another exuberantly, and then Will rushed out to help him collect the last of his things, leaving Harry alone with the parents.

"Are you Will's dad, then?" the mother asked him. She seemed a nice enough woman, a few years younger than Harry himself, perhaps a bit on the dumpy side, though Harry felt he was in no position to pass judgment on anyone else's level of personal fitness.

"Uncle," he lied smoothly, reaching out to shake her hand. "Harry."

"I'm Margaret, and this is Phil," she jerked her thumb over her shoulder at her husband.

"Nice to meet you," Harry said politely.

And with that, they promptly ran out of things to say to each other. To be honest, Harry was feeling a bit jealous of Margaret and Phil, just now. Will was not his son, would never be his son, and his connection to the boy was tenuous at best. He had no right to be in this flat, sharing the joy and the concern of these parents, preparing to leave their child behind for his last year at university. But Will had no one else, and Harry was damned if he was going to let the boy muddle through on his own.

"Sorry to interrupt your tea," Margaret said, and Harry couldn't help but think she looked as uncomfortable as he felt.

"It's quite all right," he assured her. "I was just about to leave."

She nodded, and did not speak again until Mark and Will reappeared.

"If there's nothing else you need, Will, I'd best be on my way," Harry told him.

"Oh," Will said, looking slightly crestfallen. "Right, then. I'll see you out."

They trooped across the flat together, and Harry stopped for a moment in the doorway. "Ring me," he said, "if you need anything. Anything at all."

"I will."

"I told Mark's parents I'm your uncle, if they ask. And, I know it's a few months out, but I was thinking, if you've nowhere to go at Christmas…" Harry's voice trailed off. The idea had come to him days ago; he couldn't stand the thought of Will sitting alone in Ruth's house on Christmas, with no one to celebrate with, no presents, not even the cats, who had already been moved into Harry's house and were currently taking a great deal of pleasure in terrorizing Scarlet at every opportunity. Catherine would be in London for Christmas, and had promised to come round for tea, but other than that Harry's Christmas plans consisted of sitting on his sofa, and drinking large quantities of single malt.

"That would be…nice," Will said, ducking his head the way Ruth used to do, when Harry pushed too hard and left her feeling embarrassed.

"Right. Have a good term, then," Harry said. He'd done what he came here to do; Will had everything he needed, and he might be coming round for Christmas. Harry couldn't ask for anything more.

"Bye, Harry," Will said.

Harry gave him a small, sad smile, and set off for London on his own.


	16. Chapter 16

"Mr. Younis, a word?" Harry asked shortly as he marched past Zaf's desk, heading for the safety and quiet of his office. Zaf jumped like a dog that had just been kicked, but hastened to follow in his Section Head's footsteps.

It had been a rough few months on the Grid. Adam had spent the days and weeks following Fiona's death slowly unraveling like an old jumper, massive holes appearing in his psyche as each thread of his soul grew weaker and strained beyond its limit. They'd nearly lost him, that day on the Thames Barrier, the day Harry realized just how bad off his right hand man really was. He blamed himself, still, for not seeing it sooner, not seeing the suicidal tendencies, the self-destructive impulses, the same sort of internal meltdown that had led to Tom Quinn's exploding conscience and the end of an era. Harry had been so lost in his grief over losing Ruth, he'd failed to note the same hairline fissures in his Section Chief, until it was almost too late.

These days Adam appeared to be on more of an even keel, though Harry still had his moments of doubt. It wasn't just Adam he had to worry about; little Wes occupied his thoughts more and more, that darling boy who had already lost his mum, because Harry had failed to realize that one of his own had gone rogue. Adam was all that boy had in the world, and Harry was damned if he was going to be responsible for the orphaning of yet another child.

And if he were honest with himself, somewhere in the back of his mind, young Wes Carter and Will Evershed had become inextricably linked. Both had lost their mothers, because Harry had failed to save them. Both stood in need of guidance, of protection, and Harry keenly felt that responsibility resting on his shoulders. It was his duty, he felt, to keep Adam alive, much as it was his duty to make sure that Will was well-looked after.

They'd spoken a few times, since Harry had dropped Will off at Oxford. He had received the occasional text message and responded in a like manner, much as it galled him; Harry typed painfully slowly on a computer keyboard, and he was finding the little buttons on his mobile to be quite beyond him, but he persevered, because it was Will's preferred method of communication. And, as it turned out, Catherine's as well. She'd been shocked, the day she received a brief message from her father, saying only, _Catherine. It's Dad. Hope you're well._ But that had been enough, and now he was receiving missives from his daughter, too, with much more frequency than her previously sporadic emails. She complained about her physical therapy and her mum and refused to engage him when he tried to ask how Fabian was faring, but he was speaking to his daughter on a fairly regular basis, and he had Will to thank for that.

It was the subject of Will that had him dragging Zaf into his office on this particular day. It was four days before Christmas, and he'd finally received confirmation that Will would in fact be joining him for the holiday. If a text message saying only _all right if i pop round on christmas eve_ constituted an RSVP. Harry had responded enthusiastically in the affirmative, and that was that. He was planning to purchase a ham, and already had rather a lot of Will's favorite beer chilling in the refrigerator, but it had occurred to him this morning that there was something rather important he'd forgotten.

"Have a seat," he said, gesturing towards the chairs across from his desk as they filed into his office together. Zaf politely closed the door behind him, and then slumped into a chair, sprawling out with his arm draped across the back of the chair beside him, projecting a studied air of careless indifference that Harry saw through immediately. The young spook was worried _,_ but all Harry could think was _good. A little healthy fear goes a long way_.

"I'm having Will over for Christmas," he began, watching as Zaf's expression changed from slightly apprehensive to slightly skeptical in an instant.

Harry paused for a moment, but Zaf shattered the silence, saying only, "Right, then," and looking rather bemused about the whole thing.

"It occurs to me, though, that he might not be getting much in the way of Christmas presents this year," Harry continued, trying not to shift uncomfortably in his chair. _Christ_ but this was awkward. There was a part of him that couldn't believe he was even having this conversation, but he was determined to make this Christmas a happy occasion, if he could. It would be hard enough for Will, having to celebrate without his mum there, and Harry staunchly refused to let the lad suffer through the holidays without so much as a present to unwrap.

"Right, then," Zaf said again. _Not quite the enthusiastic response I was hoping for,_ Harry thought glumly.

"I was wondering if you might have any ideas, as regards Christmas presents," Harry soldiered on. Zaf and Jo were far and away the youngest members of the team, and though Harry had momentarily considered finding some oblique way to ask for Jo's opinion, he'd settled on Zaf, seeing as he was not only young, and a man, but he actually knew who would be receiving the present.

For a long moment, there was only silence, as Zaf stared at him incredulously, and Harry scowled back at him. As he had been preparing for this moment, Harry had assumed that Zaf would have a list of ideas as long as his arm, and hadn't quite been prepared for this uncertainty. _How hard could it be?_ he'd thought; surely Zaf could just suggest whatever it was he himself wanted, and that would be that. Or perhaps that was the problem; this was a rather personal question, after all, going a bit beyond the normal scope of the professional boss/employee relationship that Harry tried so hard to cultivate.

"Well, I don't know, Harry," Zaf said slowly. "Maybe a gaming system, or a tablet, or something. A new mobile. Honestly, I've no idea. I don't know what sort of kit he already has."

"Could you find out for me?" Harry asked impatiently. He only had four days to come up with a decent gift, something good enough to make Will forget, if only for a moment, that his mum wasn't there to celebrate with him. "I know you've been in touch with him."

"That would be a bit obvious, don't you think? I can't very well ring him up and say, _what do you want for Christmas, mate,_ can I?"

"You're a spook, Mr. Younis, I imagine you could put your impressive talents to use and come up with something a bit more subtle than that," Harry said dryly.

They'd been in contact some, Zaf and Will, Harry knew. Will had told him so, during one of the brief phone calls they'd exchanged just after Will went back to university. Will had been concerned about Zaf's motives, and Harry had assured him that everything was on the level, that Ruth had asked Zaf to look out for him, and that the young agent was only trying to keep his promise. The substance of those conversations still eluded Harry, but he didn't begrudge Zaf his presence in Will's life. Perhaps between them they could handle any problems that might arise.

"I'll look into it," Zaf said. Harry got the feeling that if Zaf had been speaking to anyone else he might have sighed or caused more of a fuss over the request, but as impertinent as he was, Zaf was still hesitant to show any sort of rebelliousness when it came to Harry's directives.

"And quickly. Please," Harry added, realizing that he couldn't exactly order Zaf to go digging around in Will's personal life; this was a request, and it ought to sound like one.

"I will," Zaf told him, and that was that.

* * *

In the end Zaf's suggestions consisted of a gaming system Harry had never heard of, some new clothes (apparently Zaf had been round to Will's flat, and had been horrified by the state of the lad's winter wardrobe, or lack thereof) or a new wallet. Harry had already decided he was going to buy the lot, but he knew it would be foolish in the extreme to attempt such a feat entirely unaided.

Which was how he found himself driving out to Jane's on the afternoon of the 23rd of December, to pick up his daughter while struggling to mentally prepare himself for the ordeal that would be speaking to his ex-wife for the second time this year.

Mercifully, Jane was out, and Catherine was doing quite well on her crutches. He got her safely stowed in the passenger's seat of his car, and then set off for the shops.

"So, what exactly are we doing?" Catherine asked him, her tone light and playful. "Not that I'm not grateful for an excuse to get out of the house for a bit."

Having no idea how to explain this situation, Harry had been deliberately vague when he'd rung her up and asked for her assistance. Catherine had jumped at the chance to enjoy a bit of freedom without asking any questions, but he should have known better than to hope she'd continue along without further information. She had always been a curious girl; Harry had lost sleep over that curiosity on a consistent basis for the last twenty-six years.

"There's a woman I used to work with, called Ruth," Harry said, fumbling a bit as he spoke her name. It had been weeks, since he'd last said her name aloud. There was a certain unspoken agreement on the Grid, that no one should bring her up within his hearing, and when he spoke to Will, he usually referred to her as _your mum._ He'd missed saying her name, he realized. He'd missed it almost as much as he missed her face, her smile, her soft voice and her keen wit and the warm brush of her hand against his arm.

"She…well…she…" Catherine had turned in her seat to watch him, her expression faintly accusatory. _I'm cocking this up,_ he thought glumly. No doubt Catherine thought she had been hoodwinked into buying a present for her father's paramour. Harry rushed to explain himself. "She died, you see. And her son, Will, he's all alone for Christmas."

"Oh," Catherine sighed, her eyes going faintly misty as she realized what their little excursion was really all about. "How old is he?"

"Twenty-one," Harry told her. _Nearly the same age as Graham,_ he thought. That never failed to make him sad; he was so much older than Ruth, he knew, and yet their sons were nearly the same age. It was just so _unfair_ , that she'd had to shoulder such a burden from such an early age.

"And you want to buy him something for Christmas? That's rather… _nice_ of you, dad," she said. He tried not to bristle at the surprise in her tone.

"He's a good lad," Harry said gruffly.

"Doesn't he have anyone else? What about his father?"

Harry's hands gripped the wheel so tightly his knuckles went white, and he sucked his cheek between his teeth to keep from saying exactly what he thought of Will's _father_ , if indeed the man could even be referred to in such a way; Harry didn't believe that monster deserved such an honor.

"He's dead," he answered curtly.

"Right," Catherine said, turning away from him again. _Everyone around me always bloody dies,_ Harry thought. He could almost feel the same idea festering in the back of Catherine's mind. What must she think of him, his beautiful, compassionate little girl; what must she think of the father who had abandoned her, the mysterious spook with blood on his hands and darkness in his heart?

"And you need my help to pick something out?" she prodded gently.

"I already know most of what I need to get," he said. "There's a list in my pocket. Apparently he needs a new winter coat, though, and maybe a jumper or two, and that's where you come in."

Catherine actually laughed at that. "It's a good thing you called me, dad. I can only imagine the sorts of thing you'd choose."

His anger flared for a moment, before he realized she was teasing him, and his face relaxed into an expression that almost qualified as a smile. It was a beautiful, brisk winter's day, he had the whole weekend off from the Grid, Will was coming round for tea tomorrow, and his daughter was teasing him. Harry Pearce was perilously close to happy, in that moment.


	17. Chapter 17

**A/N: I can't for the life of me remember when Ruth sent the postcard, if indeed I ever knew the date of its sending at all, and so I have suited that event to my own purposes here.**

* * *

The ham was roasting merrily away, Scarlet and the cats were curled up together on the hearth in front of a roaring fire, several presents sat wrapped in brightly colored paper by the window, and Harry was pacing the floor of the kitchen, keeping one eye on his watch. Christmas Eve had arrived, and brought with it the sort of nervous anticipation that Harry usually associated with the beginning of an undercover operation. He knew that such anxiety was unfounded; he was only planning to share a meal with one very bright young man, it wasn't as if he was about to storm into some sort of enemy bunker. There would be no bullets flying through the air tonight, and yet somehow still the nerves lingered.

It was a long, long time since Harry had last spent Christmas with anyone in a personal setting. The last few years he'd actually found himself on the Grid, not due to some urgent need, but rather because he simply didn't know where else to go. He'd spent half his life inside the walls of Thames House, and at times it seemed more like home than anywhere else. This year, though, Harry was going to have company.

Catherine wanted to swing by, but she was dependent on her mother's good nature to arrange a lift to Harry's house, and so he didn't hold much hope of seeing his daughter tonight. Jane had been pleasant enough to him while they were at the airport together, but he had the feeling that was more to do with her relief over seeing Catherine alive and whole than it was an indication of her heart warming towards him. He'd promised himself he wouldn't push too hard; if Catherine could come, he would be elated, and if she couldn't, he was determined not to cause a fuss about it.

Will was most certainly coming; he'd rung Harry earlier in the day to confirm the time, and had assured him that he was quite looking forward to it. That particular declaration had surprised Harry; there were very people who would openly admit to enjoying spending time in his company. As Harry waited for the appointed hour to arrive he wondered what on earth he was going to talk to the lad about; a conversation about Will's courses could only take them so far. Harry could engage in small talk with politicians if the occasion called for it, and he knew how to give orders and romance women and talk his way out of trouble, but none of those skills would be of any use to him now.

No answers were immediately forthcoming, and before he had a chance to get his thoughts in order, the doorbell rang, heralding Will's arrival. Harry heaved a great sigh, and set off to open the door.

Will's cheeks were pink from cold, but he offered Harry a cheerful smile as they greeted one another. They shook hands; a hug, while perhaps appropriate for the informal setting, was entirely too affectionate for either of them to handle. Although, Harry did feel a deep well of affection for the lad; he was kind and clever and had a good sense of humor, and he seemed to reflect all the best parts of his mother in everything he did.

"I almost thought I wasn't going to make it, there were a million people on the tube," Will said as Harry shut the door behind him. The animals, sensing the arrival of a new human, had come scrambling into the entryway, and they attacked Will at once, dog and cats alike jockeying for position, each trying to monopolize his attention. In the end Will simply sat down, chuckling, and let them crawl all over him.

"I think they get a bit bored," Harry confessed. He actually felt just the tiniest bit of embarrassment at this display; they were all behaving as if they hadn't encountered another living soul in days.

"I remember the hours mum used to work," Will told him, looking up at him from his position on the floor with a sad smile on his face. "I imagine it's even worse for you, being the boss."

Harry grunted, but said nothing. Yes, he worked entirely too much, and he knew it, but what else was he supposed to do? There was a world in need of saving and no one but a pair of unruly cats and an arthritic dog to greet him at home, and there was no doubt as to which took precedence in his mind.

"Have you heard anything about her?" Will asked in a would-be casual voice. He wasn't looking at Harry anymore, having instead focused his attention on Fidget, who was furiously rubbing his face against Will's chin.

For an instant, Harry hesitated; he had in fact received a postcard from Ruth herself only a few days before. It had passed through many hands before reaching him, though its final recipient, Harry's rather bemused next-door neighbor, could not tell him how or why. At this very moment the postcard was sitting on the little table beside his bed, tucked inside a very dull book on the evolution of naval warfare. The message inscribed in the card was of a distinctly personal nature, and Harry was somewhat concerned that Will, having been raised by Ruth bloody Evershed of all people, likely read enough Latin to be able to translate its message. It felt wrong, though, to keep the postcard from him. Seeing her familiar handwriting, knowing that she was well and safe and still out there, somewhere, had brought Harry a great deal of comfort, and he could not deny Will the same opportunity.

"Actually, I have," he said.

At this Will scrambled to his feet, his expression caught somewhere between hopeful and terribly afraid.

"Is she-"

"She's well," Harry answered quickly. "Wait just a moment, I've something to show you."

And with that Harry trundled off up the stairs, leaving a very bemused young man behind in his entryway. He moved as quickly as his stubborn knee would allow; it pained him more, in winter. The cold seemed to seep into his very bones, to freeze his joints and strain his ligaments more than ever. The in-house doctor had suggested that Harry ought to consider undergoing knee replacement surgery, and Harry had all but laughed in her face. Such an operation would leave him out of commission for weeks, and acquiescing to it felt like nothing so much as an admission of defeat. If he gave in, Harry had the sense that a recommendation regarding early retirement would surely follow. Spying was a young man's game, and only the fittest survived. He had no intention of going down without a fight, not after everything Ruth had sacrificed to keep him at his post, and so the replacement would have to wait.

When Harry descended the stairs again, he didn't immediately see Will, and the young man's absence caused him a moment's concern. There was no need for him to worry, as he soon discovered; Will had merely wandered into the kitchen, where he was eyeing the slowly roasting ham with some interest.

"Smells good," Will said as he caught sight of Harry.

"It's nearly ready," Harry assured him. Cooking had never been a particular passion of his, but he had lived on his own for years now, and could manage a few things quite well, given a coherent recipe and enough time to prepare. "I received this a few days ago. I thought it might interest you."

And with that Harry handed over the postcard, which was at present the single most precious thing he owned. He'd memorized its message, and carried those words in his heart everywhere he went.

 _You did the right thing. We both did the right thing. Salus populi suprema lex._

 _Grand tours are less fun alone. But I am well and safe. Look after yourself. I think of you often._

 _Quos amor versus tenuit tenebit,_

 _Stubborn Mule_

Harry was rather ashamed to admit that his own Latin was rather rusty, and he'd been forced to turn to an online translator to confirm its meaning. He could only hope that Will would either share his somewhat tenuous grip on the language, or at the very least display enough discretion not to mention it.

As he read the words Will grew very still, his eyes roving across the postcard as he devoured this last little piece of his mother.

" _Safe and well,"_ he repeated quietly. "Where?" At this last he raised his gaze to Harry's face, and Harry was shocked to find that his young companion didn't appear to be comforted by this missive. If anything, he looked rather…hurt.

Harry shrugged slightly. "I've no idea. She sent the card through back channels, and even if I could determine where she was when she sent it, there's no guarantee she'd be there now. In fact, we can be almost certain that she'll have moved on. It isn't safe for anyone to know where she is."

"Not even me?" Will asked in a small voice.

"Not even _me_ ," Harry said firmly. Which was true; if Harry had only known where she was, there wasn't a power on earth that could have stopped him bringing her home, consequences be damned. She belonged here, in London, in her little house with the stained glass door, with her son.

"I don't understand," Will said, his eyes snapping back to the postcard. "Why did she reach out to you, and not to me?"

 _Ah, there it is,_ Harry thought. The boy felt neglected, as well he might, having discovered that his mother had taken the time to assure her boss that she was well, without sparing a thought for her son. Harry knew the lad was worried sick about her, and he had realized too late how the postcard might feel like a slap in the face to Will.

"She has no way of knowing what I've told you," Harry reminded him gently. "For all she knows, you think she's dead, and you've no one to talk to about it but Zaf. Likely she's just worried that receiving a message from her out of the blue might upset you more than anything else."

Will nodded slowly, and then handed the postcard back to Harry in a decidedly reluctant gesture. Harry tucked it into his pocket, and then busied himself with final preparations for their dinner. Will had not mentioned the more personal aspect of the message, and Harry was duly grateful.

* * *

While Harry faffed about with the food, Will tucked himself into a chair at the table, his mind still reeling as he pondered his mother's message.

 _Quos amor versus tenuit tenebit._

That Harry loved Ruth had been apparent from rather early on his acquaintance with the man, but this was the first time that Will had ever considered that she might feel the same way about him. There had never really been anyone else in her life before, and he felt a bit guilty at the rush of jealousy that had consumed him when he first realized she'd sent a message to Harry instead of to him. He knew that in many ways Ruth's life had stopped the day he was born; she'd been a devoted mother, and she'd rarely made time for herself. Surely she deserved this, he thought. Surely she deserved some chance at happiness, however fleeting.

Will watched Harry carefully, as he pondered this strange new development. As her son, Will felt a little uncomfortable about considering her personal relationships, but as a young man he knew that she was a person, just like any other, and he wanted to believe that she had been happy. Had Harry made her happy? Did she hold out some hope of returning to him, to them?

And then there was the way she'd signed the card. _Stubborn Mule._ Will didn't know what that was about, though he supposed it was some sort of private joke between the pair of them. That was a strange thought; Will had never really considered her having inside jokes that he wasn't a part of. He'd never considered her having a _life_ that he wasn't a part of, but it was becoming clearer by the day that there was a great deal about his mother he'd never known.

"Supper's ready," Harry said quietly.


	18. Chapter 18

_24 December 1988_

"Come on, rabbit, please?" Peter asked in a wheedling tone of voice. Ruth was thankful that he couldn't see her face; she had just rolled her eyes so hard she'd very nearly done herself injury.

She was, at that very moment, sat on the floor in her absurdly tiny flat, speaking to Peter on the phone while she fiddled with a string of bright Christmas lights. There would be no tree this year, and only one little present for Will, but she was damned if she was going to let Christmas come and go without proper lights. She had purchased a set, and hung them around the window in the main room, but one of the bulbs had blown, and she was desperately trying to fix it before Christmas day. It was late, she was tired, she was terribly lonesome, and Peter was begging her to come home for Christmas.

"Even if I wanted to – which I don't, by the way – I can't afford the train tickets, Peter. Will and I are celebrating Christmas on our own this year."

Her voice cracked, as she spoke those last few words. It wasn't that she particularly missed her mother or David; she meant what she said, when she told Peter she didn't want to come home for the holiday. What she missed was more the _idea_ of spending Christmas with family. She missed the big tree, and the piles of presents, the carolers and all the food, she missed Peter's impish smile and the warmth of a crackling fire. In this little flat there was no one but her and Will, and much as she loved her son, she wanted more for them. She wanted Will to have a proper Christmas, wanted to watch him bury himself beneath a mountain of wrapping paper, wanted to hear him laugh, wanted him to know that he was loved beyond measure. He was only three; he didn't understand why they weren't living with Gran and David any more, he didn't understand why Peter didn't come round to play with him any more, and he'd been very concerned about their lack of a proper tree.

When Ruth had left home just a few months before, she'd known things would be difficult, but she hadn't really been prepared for things to be _this_ bad. Every penny she had went to paying her bills, and she barely had time to sleep between work and school and looking after her son. At the end of her first term she'd had a bit of a meltdown; she'd collapsed in the shower one night, sobbing, convinced she'd made a huge mistake, that she simply wasn't capable of handling it all on her own. Once her tears had subsided she stumbled to her feet, and snuck off to peek in on Will, sleeping peacefully in his little bedroom. She'd watched her son for a long time, feeling helpless and scared and a million other things at once, but she found that the longer she lingered there in his doorway, the more the sight of him strengthened her resolve. Things would be hard, for the next few years. Damn near impossible, at times. But she was doing this for Will. She was working hard so that he might have a chance for a good life, a better life than she could have ever given him if she'd stayed in her mother's house, drowned beneath the sort of poison Elizabeth spewed with every breath.

"Are you still there, rabbit?" Peter asked.

"I'm here. I'm sorry I won't see you for Christmas." And she was sorry. She missed Peter more than anything else about her home; he was a constant source of encouragement for her, even when she faltered, and she hadn't realized quite how much she'd come to depend on him until he was no longer there to support her.

"About that," Peter said, a somewhat mischievous note to his voice, "do you think you could open the door?"

As he finished speaking she dropped the phone and leapt to her feet, her heart in her throat as she raced across the flat to the front door. She threw it open, and there he stood, rucksack slung over his shoulder, a rather tired-looking Christmas tree leaning against his side.

"Happy Christmas, Ruth," he said, grinning.

Ruth burst into tears and flung herself at him with such ferocity that he lost his grip on the tree, and it fell through the doorway with a clatter. She could hardly believe her eyes; Peter was in her arms, laughing, and he'd brought a tree.

"I'm so happy to see you," she breathed as she buried her face in his shoulder.

"You shouldn't be alone at Christmas," he answered firmly.

They stood like that for a long time, holding one another tight while the door stood wide open and the tree lay forgotten on the floor. Ruth had spent the last few months so caught up in the details of surviving from one day to the next that she'd had precious little time to make friends, and the loneliness had begun to weigh upon her. She hadn't realized quite how much she craved the presence of another person, another proper adult, until the Christmas season began, and she was incredibly grateful to have Peter with her now.

Eventually she came back to her senses, and reached up on her tiptoes to drop a kiss on his cheek, laughing as his beard tickled her face.

"Come on, you," she said, and with that, they marched into the flat together, Peter stopping long enough to retrieve the tree.

As he stood and surveyed her new home Ruth watched him anxiously; she knew it wasn't much. There was one main space that served as both sitting and dining room, with the tiny kitchen off to one side, and a short hallway leading back to a bedroom and a cramped bathroom. The flat had come with some furniture, which she had accepted gladly; Elizabeth had refused to let her take anything from the family home. When she moved in, Ruth had settled Will in the bedroom, with a little bed and all his toys, and took the sofa for herself.

"Oh, Ruth, please tell me you don't sleep there," Peter sighed, taking in the duvet and pillows piled up on the sofa.

Ruth shrugged. "It's not so bad. I wanted Will to have his own space; I can sleep anywhere, but he needs a proper room. And it's not forever; once I've saved up a bit I should be able to afford a bigger place." _I hope,_ she added to herself.

For a long moment he looked at her, concern written all over his face, but he knew better than to argue with her. Peter knew how determined Ruth could be, once she set her mind to something.

"Let's get the tree up, shall we?" he said finally.

Ruth smiled, and together they set to it. Peter pulled an assortment of odds and ends from his rucksack; presents for Will and Ruth, a tree stand, a few little ornaments, and a bottle of white wine appeared as if by magic, and Ruth's spirits lifted exponentially with each passing moment.

"Thank you, Father Christmas," she said, when their work was done and they were sitting on the sofa together, drinking their wine from plastic cups.

"Really, Ruth, it's the least I could do. I've got a new job, you know."

"Oh, Peter, have you really? What is it?"

"I've been given a place in the Royal Protection Unit," he said proudly. "I'll start training in the new year. It'll be months before they put me on active duty, but still."

"Oh, that's wonderful!" she cried. Overcome with pride and the sheer radiant joy his visit had instilled in her, she leaned over and kissed his cheek again. "Well done, Peter."

He blushed; it was hard to see, beneath that big bushy beard, but it was there just the same.

"London's not so far from Oxford," he said, looking at her with a shy little smile on his face. "I was thinking I could come visit you, at the weekends. If you like."

"I'd like that very much," she answered, settling back down against the cushions. She was warm, she was happy, Peter was here, and there was a Christmas tree in the corner of the room with five whole presents for Will sitting beneath it. Perhaps this holiday wouldn't turn out to be quite as miserable as Ruth had anticipated.

They finished off the bottle of wine between them, and then Ruth produced another duvet from a cupboard. She and Peter had a quiet disagreement about who would be sleeping on the couch and who on the floor, and in the end they settled down on the floor together, lying on top of one duvet with the other draped over them for warmth. As Ruth drifted off to sleep with Peter's arms wrapped around her, she wondered if she ought to be concerned about the way he held her, the way he blushed when she kissed his cheek. He was a handsome young man, always had been, and she knew that somewhere in his heart he harbored feelings for her that weren't entirely familial in nature. He made her feel safe and happy, and she loved him, in a way; what would she do, if he pushed for something more between them? Had she crossed a line, allowing him to fall asleep with her like this? Did she care?

 _I'll worry about that tomorrow,_ she thought, and finally surrendered herself to dreams.

* * *

"Mummy! Mummy look!"

Ruth's eyes opened slowly, and she found herself face to face with her son. Will was kneeling beside her, his little hand shaking her shoulder to wake her while he trembled from head to toe with excitement. It took a moment for Ruth to come to her senses, to realize that the hand currently resting on her breast under the duvet and the warm breath tickling the back of her neck belonged to Peter. She vaulted to her feet, scooping her son up in her arms and kissing his little cheek, trying to calm the rapid fluttering of her heart. _Too close,_ she thought. _That was too close._

In the harsh light of day, even a beautiful Christmas day, Ruth was forced to admit that she could not allow anything to happen between herself and Peter. He was her step-brother, and though they were not bound by blood, there was still too much between them. Whatever comfort he might give her, she could not let their relationship be tainted by innuendo and suspicion.

"Presents, Mummy!" Will cried happily, pointing at the tree.

"What an amazing thing!" she said in a tone of wonder. Will clapped his little hands together delightedly, and tried to escape from her arms, anxious to start opening his gifts. "Not yet, little man," she chided him gently. "Breakfast first. Sit here with Uncle Peter for a minute."

She deposited him on the floor beside Peter, who was looking up at her with a strange expression on his face; was that fear she saw in his soft brown eyes? Had he been awake before Will's arrival? Did he know where his hands had been? Ruth gave him a tight little smile and shuffled off to the bathroom, desperately wishing she could reclaim some of the happiness that had filled her the night before. She washed her face and tidied her hair, took a deep breath, and stared at herself in the mirror for a moment.

"You can do this, Ruth," she told herself. "You're fine."

And with that, she returned to the sitting room.

"Five presents, Mummy!" Will exclaimed when he caught sight of her.

"We counted all of them," Peter explained. He was sitting cross-legged on the floor, with Will perched on his lap. They looked rather similar, the pair of them, with their dark hair and their high cheekbones, and for a moment Ruth felt almost as if her heart were ripping apart in her chest. What would it be like, she wondered, to walk into the sitting room on Christmas morning and find her son sitting with his father, with a man who loved him, who cared for him, who protected him? Peter had been a part of Will's life from the moment he first entered the world, standing quietly by Ruth's side while her son learned to walk, as he learned to talk, as he grew from a baby into a toddler. Would he still be here, years from now? Would he still be by her side, if he knew for certain that she could never give him what he wanted?

"Who wants pancakes?" she asked, trying very hard not to cry.

Will jumped to his feet and ran for the kitchen, chattering happily all the while.

"Rabbit," Peter said quietly as he struggled to pull himself to his feet. There was an apologetic note to his voice, but Ruth couldn't bear to hear whatever it was he was about to say. Not just now. She was determined not to weep. Not on Christmas Day.

"It's fine," she said. "It's fine. Come on, let's get something to eat."


	19. Chapter 19

"Oh, mate, you should have seen it," Will said, still chuckling. "She was running around, dressing gown flapping in the breeze, broom in the air, and the bloody bird was just – it was like he was taunting her. He refused to come down. And of course my Uncle Peter's mad girlfriend Angela was stood right in the center of the kitchen, covered in bird droppings, shrieking."

Harry had been chuckling, too, as he listened to Will tell the story of one of his most memorable childhood Christmases, centered on a renegade pigeon and his mother's futile attempts to coax the bird out of her sitting room. At the mention of _my Uncle Peter's mad girlfriend Angela,_ though, the laughter had died in his throat and his heart had withered in his chest. For a moment Harry studied the boy's face, flushed from food and drink and the warmth of the fire and his own merriment as he recounted the tale. _This young man knew Angela Wells,_ Harry thought bleakly. _Not as an agent or a traitor, but as a person. He spent Christmas with Angela bloody Wells._ It was not an altogether pleasant thought. How had she treated young Will? She'd never been a very warm sort of woman, and given the way she'd reacted to Ruth's presence on the Grid, Harry couldn't imagine that Angela had been particularly affectionate towards him. It had only been a few months, since her spectacular implosion; what had Ruth told him of the end of that wretched woman's life? Had she told him anything at all?

"How did she manage to get rid of it?" Harry asked, trying to force himself to engage in the conversation, rather than allow his mind to wander too far down that particular rabbit hole.

"Uncle Peter chucked a bottle of wine at it," Will said, his laughter fading as a much more somber expression overtook his gentle features. "It shattered when it hit the ceiling and drenched the bloody pigeon – all of us, actually – and after that the bird didn't seem too interested in hanging around any more. Mum was furious, it's the only time I ever heard her shout at him."

Not for the first time, Harry wished he'd asked Ruth more about her relationship with Peter. To hear Will tell it, Peter had spent most every Christmas with them, while Will was young. Now that he knew how awful Ruth's mum could be, he supposed this made sense in a way, and he couldn't blame Peter for preferring his stepsister's company to that of their parents.

 _I told her I slept with my stepbrother._

The words echoed in Harry's mind. When he'd sent Ruth into that room, to be perfectly honest, he had no idea what she was going to tell Angela, and he still wasn't entirely sure that he knew the truth of what had transpired once the pair of them were alone. All he knew was he'd perused her file, seen that Ruth had been close to Peter Haig and Angela Wells had been a jealous cow, and he'd set Ruth loose with the intention of causing as much damage as possible, as quickly as possible. He'd left the details up to her, and he couldn't help but wonder why she'd settled on that particular lie. She could have said anything, yet _that_ was the story she chose.

 _Stop it, old man,_ he chided himself. _You'll drive yourself mad asking questions without answers._

Perhaps, he decided, now was the time to let Will open his presents. They'd long since abandoned the kitchen in favor of the warmth of the sitting room, but Will had not asked after the pile of gifts sitting by the window, and Harry had not yet drawn attention to them, feeling a bit awkward once the actual giving of the gifts became an immediate reality, rather than a pleasant theory. A beer or two had left him feeling slightly more at ease, however, and he was anxious to see whether the gifts he'd chosen were to the boy's liking.

"I've got something for you," Harry said, grunting a bit as he heaved himself out of his armchair.

"Oh, mate, you didn't have to-"

"Nonsense," Harry interrupted him gruffly. "It's Christmas."

Will looked a little flustered, and Harry tried not to look too worried as he piled the gifts up on the sofa next to him.

"Right, well, thanks," Will said, ducking his head the way Ruth used to do. Such a little thing, that subconscious gesture of insecurity, and yet it inspired such a visceral response in Harry, as his natural desire to protect this young man seemed to grow a hundredfold each time it occurred.

Will's somewhat abashed countenance gave way to exuberant enthusiasm in an instant, though, when he opened the first box and found the gaming system inside. He extoled the virtues of this particular piece of kit to Harry for a full five minutes while Harry nodded and smiled, completely bemused and not understanding a word of it. _Point one for Mr. Younis,_ Harry thought. Harry's own television had not been turned on for more than five minutes in the last few months, and when Will cheekily suggested they have a go on one of his new games, Harry nearly choked on his drink.

"Maybe next time," he finally managed, and at this Will gave a hearty laugh.

"I'll hold you to that," he said.

After the gaming system came the wallet, which also met with Will's approval, and finally the parcels containing the coat and jumpers Harry had purchased with Catherine's assistance.

"If you don't like it, or anything doesn't fit, just let me know, and we can return it," Harry said hastily as he watched Will stand to slip on the coat.

"No, I think it fits. Thanks, Harry, really. How did you know I needed a coat?" Will asked. It would appear that Harry had been right, in guessing the size, and based on the expression Will currently wore, Catherine had done well in choosing the style.

"I have my ways," he said dryly. "Anyway, it's not me you need to thank; my daughter picked it out."

"She's got good taste, your daughter," Will said lightly as he removed the coat and carefully piled it up on top of the rest of his presents.

 _Cheeky sod,_ Harry thought affectionately.

"I had hoped she'd be able to join us for dinner, but…" Harry trailed off. He supposed there wasn't really any need for him to explain that she hadn't made it, Will could see that for himself.

"We're a pair, aren't we, mate? All alone at Christmas." Will looked so sad, just then, like a little boy, scared and lonesome, and Harry's heart went out to him. _A pair indeed,_ he thought.

"Not all alone," Harry corrected him gently.

A somewhat awkward silence fell as they considered one another, bottles of lukewarm beer clutched in their hands. They'd done quite well, over the course of the evening, chatting to one another about Oxford, about Christmas traditions and the current state of the England cricket team. Though Will had mentioned his mother once or twice, they had so far managed to keep things light hearted and Harry was eager to return to that much more pleasant frame of mind as quickly as possible. He was finding it difficult to come up with a more amenable topic of conversation, as his thoughts turned once more to Ruth. Ruth, who always knew what to say to soothe him, to calm him, to relieve his pain. A skill she'd no doubt honed through the many trials and tribulations of raising her son; the thought that Ruth managed his moods much the same way one might manage an unruly child occurred to him, and he nearly laughed aloud.

As for Will, Harry could only imagine what he must be thinking, sitting in this house with only a strange old man for company. Still, though, Will had come, and Harry was happy to be able to share his fire and his food and his time with the lad.

In the midst of this sort of joint reverie the sound of a knock upon the front door echoed like a gunshot.

"Maybe she did make it, after all," Will said, no doubt referring to the absent Catherine.

"Maybe," Harry agreed as he shuffled off to answer the door. Catherine had not contacted him, not so much as a text message, but he couldn't imagine who else could possibly be coming to visit him at this time of the evening. On Christmas Eve, no less. Harry wasn't the sort who often had visitors.

So it was that Harry felt rather flummoxed as he opened the door and found himself face-to-face with Malcolm Wynn-Jones, smiling that lopsided smile of his and holding a bottle of Glenlivet.

"Happy Christmas, Harry," Malcolm said, somehow managing to look a bit sheepish.

"Malcolm," Harry said. He found he could not think of anything else to say. They weren't in the habit of visiting one another at the holidays; when they weren't working, Malcolm could most often be found holed up with his elderly, ailing mother, tending her to with his trademark quiet compassion. Then again, they'd had quite a bad year, between the two of them. Malcolm had lost his best friend, and Harry had lost Ruth, and if it weren't for Will sitting on his sofa, there was nothing Harry would like better than to help Malcolm drink his way through that bottle, and perhaps, for a moment, forget their grief.

"Mind if I come in?"

That question put Harry in a bit of an awkward situation. He had no desire to be rude, and under other circumstances, he would have welcomed Malcolm gladly. Thus far he had managed to keep Ruth's secret well-hidden, however, and he knew that Malcolm, who had known her so well, would only need one look at the boy's face to notice the many similarities between his countenance and his mother's. Harry had no wish to explain either the boy's existence or his presence in Harry's home, but he could not think of a single thing he could say that would both send Malcolm on his way, and preserve his feelings.

As ever, though, Will seemed to sense when something was afoot, and made up Harry's mind for him.

"Harry? You want another beer, mate?" the young man called as he shuffled from the sitting room into the kitchen. Malcolm had seen him; his eyes grew wide and round and puzzled.

Harry sighed and rubbed his fingers across the bridge of his nose. "Yes, please," he called back, stepping aside and holding out his arm to Malcolm in invitation.

"Is everything all right, Harry?" Malcolm asked quietly as they stepped into the entryway together. He seemed genuinely concerned, though Harry couldn't imagine why; the boy hardly posed a threat, slouching around the house in his stocking feet offering people beer.

"What I'm about to tell you goes no further, understood?" Harry said in his best boss-spook voice.

"Of course." Malcolm appeared offended at the very suggestion that he might be untrustworthy.

"Ruth's son is here."

"Ruth's… _Ruth's?_ Harry, what-"

For just an instant Harry was sincerely afraid that Malcolm was about to faint.

"I'll explain later. Just…don't say anything, all right?"

Malcolm nodded dumbly, and followed Harry into the kitchen, where Will had been distracted from his search for drinks by the prowling, opportunistic felines who had overrun Harry's house.

"Malcolm, this is Will. Will, Malcolm knew your mum," Harry introduced them briskly. Will quickly abandoned the cats, and offered Malcolm his hand.

"I'm so sorry for your loss," Malcolm stammered as they shook. Harry watched as Malcolm's gaze darted across Will's face, taking in the color of the young man's hair, the size and shape and shade of his eyes, the myriad similarities, big and small, that seemed to shout Ruth's name.

"Thanks," Will said, ducking his head and scuffing the toes of his socks against the tiled floor.

"Right. Drinks, then," Harry said.

* * *

All in all, it wasn't nearly as bad as Harry had suspected. Malcolm was polite, as always, and did not mention Ruth once. Will entertained them both, telling stories from his time at school and asking no questions about their jobs. Will and Harry had a furious but good-natured disagreement about who would pay for the young man's taxi back, and in the end, Harry won. He walked Will down to the car, paid the driver through the window, wished the lad a _Happy Christmas,_ then squared his shoulders as he prepared himself to return to his house, and face Malcolm's accusing stare.

"I believe you made some mention of explaining everything," Malcolm said tersely when Harry made his way back to the sitting room.

So Harry poured himself a measure of Malcolm's excellent scotch, took a deep breath, and told him the whole sorry story. For a quarter of an hour he spoke; he made no mention of Will's father, when he explained about Ruth's early pregnancy, nor did he mention her bloody awful mother. He told Malcolm about how brave she'd been, how strong, to raise the boy on her own, and how she must have found some way to hack the MI-5 background checks – though he did not mention how proud this made him. And when he was done, he poured another drink, and another, until he fell asleep on his own sofa. Malcolm covered him with a blanket, muttered something about him being a _sentimental old fool,_ and settled himself down in the spare room.

It was one of the best Christmases Harry had ever had.


	20. Chapter 20

No matter what Harry said, there was never time to grieve. The world spun madly on, as ever, and Harry carried the weight of his grief in his heart, never taking the time to open the door behind which he had locked away all of his pain and all of his doubts. In just four short years his team had experienced more loss – thanks to death and the meddling of politicians and, in the case of Tom Quinn, one exploding conscience – than in the previous ten put together. Yet he could not dwell on their fate, or the role he played in each of their losses, for there was work still to be done.

The bombing of the train in Tehran left a bad taste in his mouth from the moment he ordered it done. The Home Secretary had insisted, and Harry had done as he was bid, despite the fact that he knew, deep down in his soul, that it was wrong. That it was murder. And when the truth came out, when they learned that their target had survived the attack and a plague had been loosed upon the world as a direct result of the order Harry had given, his first thought was how very grateful he was that Ruth was not present to bear witness to his shame. What would she have thought of him, that brilliant, gentle woman, if she knew what he had done?

When he first realized the potential for disaster that plague engendered, he immediately called Will. Harry urged the boy to stay inside, though he could not tell him why or for how long. It was plain from the tone of his voice that Will was terrified by that warning, but for once he meekly agreed, and set Harry's mind at ease. Whatever else happened, at least he could rest assured that he had done what he could to keep Ruth's son safe.

The threat passed, though not before Harry found himself once more forced to make some rather questionable decisions. _That's the job,_ he told himself, _one questionable decision after another._ And when the dust settled, he added Zaf's name to the list of the fallen.

Adam insisted on calling Zaf's family himself, having known the man longer than any of them, and, for once, Harry acquiesced. He almost never permitted anyone else to make those calls; every member of his team was his responsibly, and he felt the weight of each of their losses heavy on his conscience. Those phone calls were part of his penance; he would sit and quietly listen while mothers and fathers, husbands and wives, sisters and brothers wept and screamed and cursed him, and he accepted it all without a word of protest because somewhere, deep down in the bottom of his heart, he believed he deserved it.

This time, though, he let Adam make the call, because Harry had another, equally unpleasant task. He needed to speak to Will.

" _Harry? Mate, what's wrong? It's two o'clock in the bloody morning, some of us are trying to sleep." Will's voice was rough and his speech slightly slurred, giving evidence to the truth of his words. It hadn't occurred to Harry, before now, that perhaps it was a bit selfish of him to call the lad right away, rather than let him sleep. Somewhere in the back of his mind he knew that he was calling, not to assuage Will's fears, but to quiet his own, to hear a friendly voice on the other end of the line, and to believe, just for a moment, that everything was all right._

" _I apologize for the lateness of the hour, Will. I just wanted you to know, the threat has passed. You're free to come and go as you please."_

" _I wasn't aware I was under house arrest."_

Cheeky sod _, Harry thought affectionately. Aloud he said, "I just meant, it's safe out there again."_

" _And that couldn't wait 'til morning?"_

 _Harry took a deep breath. While he had intended to give Will the all-clear, that wasn't the only piece of news he needed to share. "It's not just that, Will."_

 _There came a shuffling sound on the other end of the line, and Harry could almost see the boy struggling to pull himself upright, hair all a mess, those eyes so like his mother's wide and shining in fear._

" _It's about Zaf. I'm so sorry, Will, but he's…he's gone."_

" _Gone?" Will repeated sharply. "Gone, like my mum? Or gone, as in…dead?"_

" _Dead," Harry replied, his voice hardly more than a whisper._ I think _, he added in his mind. He didn't dare speak the words aloud. Hope was dangerous thing, and no one knew that better than Harry Pearce._

" _How?" Will demanded._

" _I can't tell you," Harry said sadly. And that was true on many levels; Harry couldn't say for sure what had happened to that fine young man, and even if he could have, he wouldn't have been able to share it with Will. He'd already done too much, revealing the truth of Ruth's departure. He could not take such a risk again._

Will took it hard, losing Zaf. Though they hadn't been particularly close, Zaf was nearer Will's age than Harry, and he was one of the few remaining links that boy had to his mother. There was something restrained about Harry's conversations with Will, following the loss of Zaf; at times Harry couldn't help but wonder if Will was beginning to blame him, in some way. Will had lost his mum, and now he'd lost a friend, and Harry had been there for all of it, standing quietly in the background, pulling strings Will could neither see nor comprehend.

Perhaps this was not the only reason for Will's reticence, however; May was fast approaching, and with it, the date of Will's graduation from Oxford. He had done well in his final year, despite the massive upheaval in his personal life, and Harry was fiercely proud of him. Harry had even gone so far as to roster himself off the Grid for the entire weekend, in order to join in the festivities surrounding Will's degree ceremony. It seemed only right; Ruth would have been there, _should_ have been there, and in her absence Harry keenly felt a duty to stand in attendance for her son.

And so he found himself once more in Oxford, wandering down the once-familiar pavement with his hands tucked in his pockets, taking in the myriad changes the town had undergone in the many years since his own university days. _Ruth would have walked here, as well,_ Harry thought as his feet piloted their own path, without any assistance from his otherwise occupied mind. An image came to him, an image of a young Ruth, her hair long and her face unlined, walking down the pavement, the child Will holding her hand and trotting along by her side. He would have given anything, _anything_ to have been there, to stand witness to her great achievement, to laugh with her, to play with her son, to see her smile once again. It had been far too long since he had last seen her face, and he knew his memories paled in comparison to the real thing.

Why should it be, he wondered as he walked, that this woman, this one woman whom he had only known for the space of a few years, whom he had only kissed twice, this woman who had never shared the truth of her life with him, should occupy his heart and mind so completely? Never before had Harry faced such a struggle, moving on from a woman loved and lost. Even the end of his marriage had not affected him as deeply as losing Ruth, and he was confounded by the strange new reality in which he found himself.

Perhaps, he thought, the difference wasn't just in the depth of his regard for her, but the manner of her loss. He had loved Jane, truly loved her, but their divorce had been preceded by years of sniping words and quiet, subtle shifts away from one another. By the time she threw him out of the house, she had become a stranger to him, and he had almost felt relief, at no longer having to take his place by her side. He grieved for the loss of his children, but his marriage had ended long before that awful day.

There had been other women, women cherished in the darkness and abandoned in the light of day, and each of those endings had been easy enough to face. There came a moment in each relationship, each one night stand, when Harry knew they had run their course, and the time had come for him to leave. He had been granted no such certainty with Ruth, however. Ruth had been ripped away from him, taken before she was ever truly his, and he was left only with a gaping hole where his heart should have been. He had held such hope for her, for him, for them together, and those hopes had cruelly dashed without warning, without reason, and that loss was compounded by his own sense of complicity. Ruth was gone, because of him, because of his love for her, because of who he was, because of what he'd done. Ruth was gone, and he could not even apologize to her. Jane and Juliet still made the occasional appearance in his life, as unpleasant as those altercations often were, yet he was denied the same grace where Ruth was concerned.

Ruth was gone, and it was all his bloody fault.

The degree ceremony took place on a breezy, beautiful day in May. The sun was shining and the clouds skidded across a sky the same brilliant shade of blue as Ruth's eyes. Will was in his element, surrounded by his friends, and as Harry struggled toward him through a swirling mass of people after the ceremony, he took a moment to study the boy unnoticed. Will had cut his hair for the occasion; it wasn't exactly short, but it was at least neater than he had ever seen it, and Harry smiled as he wondered what Ruth would have to say about it. For a moment he simply watched as Will laughed and took pictures with his friends, tossing their caps into the air and bellowing raucously at one another. It was a moment of such unadulterated joy, such relief, such pride, and Harry could have wept, to think that he was here while Ruth was not. In a fit of almost childlike optimism Harry had snapped several photos of Will receiving his degree, hoping that one day he would see her again, and be able to share this moment with her.

"Harry!" Will shouted when he caught sight of him. There passed between them a single, frozen instant in which they regarded each other, neither sure how the other might respond. But then the moment was gone, and Will was rushing to his side. Before Harry could even say a word, Will threw his arms around him and, for the first time in their acquaintance, gave him a proper hug.

"Congratulations," Harry said gruffly when they parted.

"I can't believe you're here!" Will said breathlessly. His friends had hung back, each of them facing the onslaught of their families' affection with good-natured grins while Will ducked his head and scuffed the toes of his shoes against the grass and Harry beamed at him unabashedly.

"Wouldn't miss it for the world," Harry told him truthfully. "Your mum would be so proud," he added in a soft voice. On the day of Harry's own degree ceremony his father had said much the same to him; he'd been the same age as Will, when his mother died, and he remembered all too well how much he wished she'd been there to share that day with him. He didn't have to imagine how Will was feeling; he'd walked that same road himself.

"Thanks, mate," Will said.

Taking a deep breath, Harry threw one arm around the lad's shoulders. "Let me buy you a drink," he said. It was a bit of a gamble; likely Will would rather go get pissed with his mates than spend an hour in a dingy pub with a washed up old spook, but Harry felt himself swept away in a current of dangerous, foolish hope.

Will spared one glance for his friends, and their parents, and their siblings, before he turned and gave Harry a cheeky grin.

"Today, mate, I'll let you buy me two," he said.


	21. Chapter 21

**A/N: Special thanks to Marty Swale, who helped kick my ass in gear and made sure I was actually writing this chapter today. This flashback is centered around 3.9; dates and other details are taken from Harry's Diary, though some events have been slightly changed to suit my own purposes.**

* * *

 _31 May 2005_

"You out tonight?" Sam asked her with a teasing glint in her eyes, and Ruth offered her a small, tremulous smile in response. It was a reasonable question, given Ruth's uncharacteristic eagerness to flee the Grid and the fact that she was reapplying her lipstick for perhaps the third time this evening. Ruth kept her eyes focused firmly on her compact mirror as she answered only, "Maybe."

She _was_ going out tonight, though not, as Sam clearly suspected, on a date. The last time Ruth had accepted a man's dinner invitation she'd spent the night tied to a bannister next to Andrew Forrestal's dead body, and she shivered involuntarily at the memory. It had only been three weeks since that dreadful night, and Ruth did not think she would be going out on another date any time soon. No, tonight was something else entirely.

Back around January, Will had started casually mentioning a girl called Emma in his weekly phone calls to Ruth. He had a habit of stammering a bit, whenever Ruth asked after the girl, and his mother had smiled to herself and drawn her own conclusions. As his mother, Ruth knew she was a bit biased when it came to Will, but as far as she was concerned he was a handsome boy with a good heart, and it was only a matter of time before some girl or another stood up and took notice. Still, though, when Will had finally revealed that he and Emma were in fact dating, Ruth had found herself a bit overwhelmed, to be honest. In her mind he was still a little boy, in need of her guidance and protection, never mind that his twentieth birthday was coming up in a few short weeks. _He's growing up,_ she reminded herself sadly; he was a little boy no more, and she knew he needed to get out into the world, to experience love and loss for himself, to grow into his own man. It didn't mean that she had to be happy about his having a girlfriend.

Ruth wasn't the sort of mother who thought no girl would be good enough for her darling boy; she loved Will, but he could be a bit…lax about certain things, the length of his hair and the state of the kitchen in his rented flat, for example, and she thought that perhaps having a girl in his life might encourage him to try a bit harder, in those departments. By all accounts, Emma sounded like a lovely girl ( _she would have to be, to catch his eye,_ Ruth thought), and so Ruth had expressed some interest in meeting her.

Will had been horrified at the very suggestion.

Dating at uni wasn't something Ruth herself had experimented with; she'd been far too busy chasing after Will, and the boys at Oxford had been far too busy chasing after her classmates. She found she had very little advice to offer, and in fact she wasn't sure how that sort of thing was done, nowadays. Did boys still bring their girlfriends home to meet their mums? She wasn't entirely sure what passed for standard practice in that department, but she had continued to nudge Will on the subject until he finally gave in, and arranged for the three of them to meet at a restaurant for dinner.

Which was how Ruth came to be fidgeting with her makeup as she sat behind her desk on the Grid, preparing to leave to go meet her son and his first proper girlfriend for a meal. She fairly vibrated with anxiety; she had no idea what Will might have told Emma, about his mother and his father and his rather unorthodox childhood, and Ruth couldn't help but wonder what Emma was expecting, and how she herself might stack up against those expectations. It all seemed a bit backwards, to her mind; shouldn't it be Emma, worrying about making a good impression on Ruth, instead of the other way round?

She had almost made it to the pods, shrugging into her jacket and almost tripping over herself in her haste to leave, when Sam called out, and stopped her in her tracks.

"Our man here lives off Junction-"

"Junction five," Ruth supplied, feeling her heart sinking in her chest.

"So why is he coming off at four?"

 _Oh, why did it have to be now?_ Ruth groaned inwardly. She knew, even as she shuffled off to go retrieve Harry from his office, there was no way she was going to make dinner tonight, and she dreaded the inevitable phone call to Will. How was she supposed to explain this to her son, who thought she was a desk clerk in the most boring governmental Department she could think of?

"Harry?" she said softly as she slipped through the door.

"One of these days, Ruth, you're going to barge in here and see something you wished you hadn't," he admonished her, the little grin playing around the corners of his mouth belying the potential harshness of his words. Harry was in the midst of adjusting his tie, the shirt he'd worn earlier in the day discarded on his desk, and Ruth realized that had she entered only a few moments sooner, she would have caught him in the act of changing his clothes. She blushed scarlet as she realized how close she'd come to seeing Harry in such a state of undress, and momentarily forgot why she'd come into his office in the first place.

"Was there something you needed?" Harry asked her gently. He had always been so kind to her, had Harry; he always had a soft word and a little smile just for her. A month ago she'd come into work and discovered a birthday present from him stashed away in the drawer of her desk, and she still flushed with pleasure every time she thought about it. Ruth knew for a fact that Harry had not given a birthday present to anyone else on the Grid in the entire time she'd been working for Five, and though she still wasn't entirely sure what it meant, that he should choose to single her out in such a way, she was delighted that he had done. Every once in a while she would catch him smiling at her, from the confines from his office, across the table in the meeting room, as they passed in the corridors, and her heart would skip a beat in her chest. There was something about him, about the way he looked at her, the way he would stand just a little too close, the way he would lean over her shoulder, his chest just brushing against her, that made her wonder if perhaps his heart was skipping, too.

Now was not the time to indulge in such a fantasy, however pleasant it might be, and so Ruth took a deep breath, and asked him to join her and Sam on the Grid.

* * *

"I'm so sorry, but I'm going to have to reschedule," Ruth said quietly. She was hiding in a corridor just off the Grid, trying her best to keep her voice down and not drawn attention to her furtive phone call.

"Mum, we're already here!" Will protested. "We can go ahead and eat, and maybe you can join us for a drink, when we're done?" He sounded so put out, but in typical Will fashion, he was taking it in stride. Ruth hated that she had to cancel, and she couldn't imagine what Emma must think of her now, but the job was the job, and there was nothing she could do about it.

Ruth sighed. "I'm sorry, Will, really I am, but there's no telling when I'll be able to get out of here. I promise, I'll make time another night this week." Ruth felt a sort of tingling, the hairs rising on the back of her neck, and she chanced a brief glance over her shoulder. Sure enough, Harry was loitering nearby, his eyes trained on her, and her heart sank. She was certain he could hear her, even at that distance, and no doubt he would make his way towards her as soon as the call was done, to enquire as to her well-being. That was the last bloody thing she needed.

"Right. Ok. Well, ring me, if anything changes. Love you," Will said.

"You, too," Ruth answered, not wanting to give Harry the wrong impression as to the nature of her call.

"Everything all right?" he asked her the moment he saw her stash her mobile away in her pocket.

"Everything's fine," Ruth said with an unconvincing little smile.

"Sam told me you were going out tonight." Moving slowly, Harry had gradually closed the gap between them until he was so near she could have reached out and smoothed his rumpled tie with her fingertips, if she had been so inclined. She _was_ so inclined, as it happened, but now was neither the time nor the place for such behavior. Suddenly, it seemed very important to Ruth that Harry know she was not in fact going out on a date with a man.

"It's just an old friend of mine from uni," she lied. "We were supposed to have dinner. We can reschedule, it's no big imposition."

Harry grunted. "I'm sorry you're going to miss your dinner."

What was it about his voice, she wondered, that made her want to fold herself into his arms, to press her cheek against his chest and feel it rumbling against her skin? _Pull yourself together,_ she thought crossly. _He's your boss, for God's sake, he probably just feels sorry for you. He knows how hopeless you are in the romance department._

"It's fine," she assured him. "Really. I don't mind." And as she stood there in that corridor with him, watching the little smile playing across his face, her eyes tracing the shape of his plump lips, she was startled to discover that she was telling the truth. So long as Harry was here, she didn't mind staying a bit late. Meeting Emma would keep for another day or two.

* * *

"I'm afraid I'm going to have to put an additional burden your way," Harry said. Ruth fought the urge to sigh. She was tired, she was frustrated, and Will kept asking when she thought she might be able to reschedule their dinner. Funny, that; he had been so reluctant to introduce her to Emma, in the beginning, and now he seemed bound and determined to make it happen.

"Of course, Harry," she answered promptly. She tried to convince herself that her willingness to do whatever he asked stemmed from his authority as Head of Section D, and not from her own desire to make him smile at her as often as possible.

But then he explained the nature of this burden, and her heart sank in her chest. Harry was asking her to help him prepare for his interview as a potential replacement for the Director General of MI-5. No doubt such a promotion would be a great boon for Harry, but Ruth was loath to seem him go. The Grid wouldn't be the same, if he wasn't there pouting in his office every time she looked up from her computer. She forced herself to offer him her congratulations, however much it might pain her.

Harry tapped his fingers lightly on the back of the sofa, and she took it as her signal to sit down beside him. "Of course, it's not just me, there's a short list, but they want me to go for an interview. And when they invite you, they make it very hard to say no." There was something in his tone that surprised her; Harry seemed as unhappy about his potentially living the Grid as Ruth was.

"But why would you want to say no?" she asked him a bit breathlessly, shocked at her own daring in raising such a personal question. She knew what she wanted the answer to be; Ruth didn't want Harry to leave, because she didn't want to imagine coming into work and not seeing him there. Somewhere, deep in her heart, she hoped that he didn't want to go for the very same reason.

"Well, when there's a mercenary using his skills to help terrorists fire a missile at central London, I'd rather be here than lounging on the seventh floor." Ruth ducked her head at this response, hiding herself from his gaze for just a moment. When he offered his explanation, she felt a small stab of bitter disappointment; Harry wanted to stay because he wanted to be part of the excitement on the Grid, not because of some hidden feelings he might harbor towards certain members of the personnel. And of course not; had she really expected him to offer a more personal answer? Why should Harry think twice about her, when considering his own career trajectory?

 _Why is he telling me this?_ she wondered. It only took a moment, for her to reach the only available conclusion, and so she took a deep breath and soldiered on. "I can help you prepare for the interview. Likely questions, stuff like that. Obvious things about the future of the service, plans, failings, threats."

He nodded as she spoke, letting her know without words that she had correctly interpreted his intentions. "Thank you Ruth, but," he hesitated, but there was something in his expression; Ruth knew exactly what he was about to say, and without even realizing it, she found herself finishing his sentence.

"Not at the expense of our current operation," she concluded.

He smiled a bit, nodding in agreement, and her heart fluttered, just a little. They'd been doing that more often recently, each of them picking up where the other left off, and she tried not to think too hard about what that might mean.

"And I'd appreciate it if you kept this to yourself, kept it secret."

Ruth was finding it very difficult not to stare at his lips while he spoke. They were sitting very close together, just now, close enough that she could smell his aftershave, close enough that if she dared to lean back she'd come into contact with the arm he'd casually draped across the back of the sofa.

"Of course. Isn't that what we're meant to be good at?"

 _One of these days, all of these secrets are going to catch up to me,_ she thought.

For his part, Harry just offered her a tired little smile.


	22. Chapter 22

_1 June 2005_

"You should be prepared to answer questions on four main areas - the state of readiness of the service, your character and operational experience and, most importantly, the nature of the present threat and how far do we go to combat it? How far do we go in all senses?"

Harry was having a hard time concentrating on Ruth's words as she spoke. She was sitting in a chair just on the other side of his desk, just out of reach. There was something so…compelling about Ruth when she was passionate about something; as she spoke now she waved her hands for emphasis, twirling a pen between her slender fingers, blue eyes bright and for once focused directly on his face. She had pulled her hair back, highlighting the sharp curve of her cheek, and Harry found himself completely, utterly spellbound by her.

In the beginning, Harry tried to tell himself he'd chosen Ruth to assist with his interview preparation because she was smart, and capable, and had more experience than most with the administrative side of the intelligence field. While all these things were true, he knew, somewhere in a deep dark corner of his heart where he did not often tread, that he had chosen her in the hopes that there might be more moments like this one. Moments when he could sit with her, just the two of them, her attention fully on him as they spoke.

It had not escaped his notice that the last time he'd been preparing for such an interview, the person he'd gone to for help was his wife. Jane had been supportive throughout that process; he could recall many a night, lying in their bed, his head pillowed on her lap while she peppered him with questions in her best schoolmarm voice, smiling down at him all the while. These stolen moments with Ruth were perhaps not quite as intimate as those recollections, but there was still the hint of something personal, something special in the air. He had brought her into his confidences, had shared this secret with her, had shared with her too his quiet desperation to escape the interview with his dignity and his current position both intact. Ruth had seemed a bit surprised and a bit relieved to learn that he was not interested in becoming Director General, and he tried not to read too much into her relief.

Something was happening here, he thought as he watched her speak. A quiet sort of shift, subtle, but profound nonetheless. After fretting over it for days, he had finally found the gumption to buy her a birthday present, and the smile she'd given him upon discovering it had buoyed his spirits for days afterward. To his mind they'd reached a sort of…understanding. When he needed something done, Ruth was always the first person he turned to for aid. More and more when they sat in meetings he found Ruth by his right hand, not by design so much as by simple necessity. She knew what he was thinking, sometimes before he did, and he relied on her to pick up the threads of conversation when he trailed off.

 _Sentimental old fool,_ he thought as he watched her speak, trying not to smile fondly at her. Ruth was lovely, and brilliant, and, yes, a bit odd, but there was no reason for him to think that she harbored any sort of feeling for him, beyond the loyalty that he demanded from each of his agents. No reason except that smile she seemed to reserve just for him, no reason except that more often than not when he found himself working late on the Grid he would raise his gaze and find her seated behind her desk, always the last to leave her post. And why was that? He wondered. She was a beautiful woman, young and single with her whole life ahead of her; why wasn't she out on the town like Sam, or settling down with some nice young man, the way Zoe had tried to do? Why was it, he wondered, that of all of them, Ruth should be the one who was making her way through life all alone?

Perhaps she wasn't alone as it appeared; he reminded himself sternly of her cancelled plans, a few nights ago. She'd blushed furiously when he'd discovered her in the midst of cancelling her dinner date. Oh, she had insisted it was just a friend from uni, but she was wearing a nice outfit, she'd done her make up, and when he'd heard her speaking quietly into her mobile, he'd been surprised at the tone of her voice. Whoever it was, he was willing to bet it wasn't just a friend.

 _And it's none of your concern who she sees,_ he told himself sternly. Of course Ruth had a life outside of the Grid; he couldn't expect her to be like him, cold and lonely and pining for someone who would never look at him twice, or at least not in the way he wanted her to.

He could sense she was drawing to the end of her little speech, and so he rallied, chiming in as she finished.

"Is there anything we shouldn't be doing? Yes, I like that," he said, and tried not to puff out his chest when she smiled at him, nodding her agreement.

"How about the other candidates? Do we know who they are?" she asked him, leaning forward slightly as she spoke.

 _She looks absolutely lovely,_ he thought.

Aloud, he said only, "Of course not." At first he dismissed the idea out of hand; the short list was very hush-hush, and he wasn't particularly concerned with who his competition might be. It wasn't as if he wanted the bloody job, anyway. Ruth's expression grew almost sly, as if she'd just been issued a challenge she couldn't wait to overcome, and he wasn't sure what he wanted to do more in that moment – groan in frustration, or lean over the desk and kiss her senseless. No one could hold a candle to Ruth, when it came to ferreting out information, and the delight she took in those endeavors was utterly charming.

"Nor, Ruth, could I openly approve of anyone trying to find them out," he admonished her lightly, the corners of his mouth ticking up slightly as he tried to suppress a smile. She leaned towards him, smiling that same slightly devious little smile, and when she spoke she lowered her voice conspiratorially.

"But if a list of them happened-"

"To find its way to my desk?" He finished for her. _That's been happening with an alarming frequency lately,_ he thought as he realized what he'd done. Jane had never known him so well, nor he her; her thoughts had always been a mystery to him. Ruth though; sometimes speaking to Ruth felt a bit like speaking to the other half of his soul, and that thought terrified him even as it elated him. "Then I'd have to send it back to its rightful owner, unopened," he told her firmly, hoping she understood. It wouldn't do, to have her caught out at snooping around in the other candidates' files, not that she was very likely to be caught should she make such an attempt. Ruth was very, very good at covering her tracks.

She gave him a sheepish little smile and bowed her head in a submissive sort of gesture. By all accounts that should have been the end of it, but as he watched her, he couldn't help but wonder if she was privately planning to ignore his wishes and go ahead with her investigation anyway. Ruth could be quite tenacious - stubborn, even - when she set her mind to something, and for a moment he found himself wondering just how far she would go. She was braver than he gave her credit for, he knew; only a few short weeks ago she'd been held hostage by a madman, but she had returned to the Grid almost immediately, never once missing a beat. There was steel hiding beneath that delicate face, and every now and then Harry was confronted with the uncomfortable feeling that he didn't truly know her at all. What's worse, that feeling did not frighten him; if anything, it aroused his curiosity.

* * *

 _2 June 2005_

"I think my strengths are I hold onto certain things I feel are important and good.

I'm referring to a certain ethical dimension to our work _."_

Ruth was peppering him with questions, and while he was doing his best to answer them diplomatically, he couldn't help but feel as if she might have some other agenda. There was something in her expression as she spoke to him, something about her voice and the way she was leaning towards him, that made him feel less like she was trying to prepare him for possible interview questions, and more like she was interviewing him herself, looking for information for her own purposes. He tried to ignore this feeling; surely Ruth wouldn't use the guise of interview prep to sate her own curiosity about him. Surely she wasn't that curious about him to begin with. Was she?

And if she was curious about him, if she did want to know his personal strengths and weaknesses not as her boss but as a man, what on earth did that mean, and what on earth was he going to do about it?

 _This woman is going to be the death of me._

"We won't defeat terrorism by destroying democracy," Harry finished firmly. He truly believed that, too. There are some lines that ought not be crossed; what was the point in defeating your enemies, if when you were finished you looked around and discovered you had become exactly like them? Harry had devoted himself to service of the realm, to the idea of freedom, and he did not, could not, believe that freedom could be preserved though torture and devastation.

Ruth hummed in dissatisfaction. "That's all very high-minded, but in practice what does that mean? Does it mean results aren't everything? You draw the line somewhere, don't you?"

 _Why?_ He wondered. _What's this got to do with anything, Ruth?_

"I think that's enough for now, Ruth," he told her firmly. Her questions were hitting a bit too close to home, just now, with Morgan in a holding cell in the basement and Adam dangerously close to coming unglued.

He turned his attention to his paperwork, hoping she would take this as a silent dismissal, but to his surprise she remained. As ever she was fiddling with a pen, twirling it between her fingers while she rocked uncertainly back and forth in front of him. Harry didn't mind spending a bit of extra time with her, but he was concerned about what must be weighing on her mind, keeping her here when she had work to be doing elsewhere.

"I'm just enabling you to fail gracefully, as requested," she told him softly, trying and failing to sound lighthearted as she spoke. Harry wanted nothing more than to ask her what was bothering her, but such a question seemed entirely too personal, and so, with difficulty, he refrained.

"For which I will be eternally grateful," he replied. He meant those words, and regretted his slightly flippant tone almost at once.

And still, she lingered.

"Hypothetically, Harry, you wouldn't forget about us, would you? When you're pacing the thickly carpeted floor of your new office?" She spoke these words all in a rush, slightly breathless, a faint blush tingeing her cheeks.

Ever so slowly Harry raised his gaze to her face, pondering the meaning behind her question. _And who could ever forget about you, Ruth?_ he wondered. _And why does that thought bother you so?_ There was something almost bashful about her expression, as if she couldn't quite believe she'd asked him that, and somewhere in his heart a small seed of hope took root and began to grow. Ruth didn't want him to go, he realized. She really, genuinely, didn't want him to go, and he had no idea how to respond.

"I didn't know I paced, Ruth," he said softly. Had she been watching him, the way he watched her? Did she find herself drawn to him, as he was to her, a moth to a flame? And if she did, what was he going to do about it? _Could_ he do anything about it?

"Only in a…good way," she assured him, and then, before he could say another word, she turned on her heel and fled, leaving one rather confused, rather hopeful, rather lonely man in her wake.


	23. Chapter 23

**A/N: Let's check back in with Harry, shall we? Once again, this chapter comes with a warning for mentions of sexual assault.**

* * *

" _Ros, you are an outstanding officer. You are_ my _outstanding officer."_

How could it be, Harry wondered, that barely a year after losing Ruth, after falsely identifying her body and watching her disappear into the fog of a dreary London morning, that Ros was gone as well? She'd been lost in much the same fashion, an empty coffin buried in a spurious grave, as Harry's enemies continued to breed in the darkness like some horrible creeping vine, inching ever nearer to him, strangling him with every breath. He'd come to rely on her, on her steady hand and her cool demeanor, but he knew that however much it might pain him to lose her, Adam was taking it far worse.

In a way, Harry envied Adam his grief. Envied that he had something to grieve, had some memory to cling to, besides the hope of dreams wished for and never granted. What did Harry have? One dinner date and a thousand missed opportunities? He would trade them all gladly, along with every day he had left on the earth, for another moment in _her_ company, for one more chance to make things right. But Ruth was gone, and Ros was gone, and Harry Pearce soldiered on.

He spoke to Will; the boy planned to stay on in Oxford for the next few months, living in his little rented flat with his mates and working at the bookshop and trying to decide what he wanted to do with the rest of his life. When Harry had arranged for the service to quietly buy Ruth's home and add it to the safe house registry, a sizeable amount of money had made its way into Will's personal accounts, and the lad had more than enough to live on for the foreseeable future. He talked often of a desire to use the money to travel, and Harry was encouraging him in that endeavor. Someone ought to be able to enjoy the Grand Tour, and if it wasn't Harry himself, at least he could take some satisfaction in knowing he had helped to facilitate such an experience for Will.

There was little time to talk of plans and dreams, however; in the aftermath of Ros and Juliet's treachery, Harry and his team found themselves suspended. A drink at the Cricketer's seemed like a fine idea, until Connie returned to the table shaking like a leaf and bearing a message from Davie King.

 _Davie bloody King._

The man was a monster, and, make no mistake, Harry understood all too well the role he had played in creating that monster. MI-5 had taught Davie how to build bombs, had encouraged him in their use, had set up contacts between him and various splinter groups and gun runners, and then had the audacity to wring their hands when their pet killer turned rogue. It was in the name of bringing Davie King to heel that Harry had perpetrated the single most heinous act of his entire career; he'd framed Davie's father, a kind-hearted taxi driver, and the IRA had done the rest, torturing and killing the man and dumping his body like so much rubbish by the side of the road. The move had been intended to bring Davie in, to make him reckless enough to be caught, or remorseful enough to turn himself over. All they had succeeded in doing was reigniting his bloodlust. Davie left Northern Ireland behind, and came for England. He left a trail of devastation from Leeds to Brighton, and there were whispers of darker things, things worse even than car bombs and random assassinations of civilians. With each new crime Davie had taunted Harry, reminded him over and over that all of this death, all of this pain, was retribution for Harry's own misdeeds. And then, after months of terror, in 1985, silence. Davie King had disappeared, and though he still sent Harry an ironic little card every year at Christmas, Harry had tried to assuage his own guilt with the thought that at least the horror had come to an end.

Until now.

Now Harry sat in the flat that had been his ever since that dreadful day when Jane tossed him out on his ear, surrounded by the detritus of decades of hard living and harder choices, his team looking to him for leadership, for guidance, for reassurance, and he found he could offer none. Davie King could not be reasoned with; he had no higher nature to appeal to, no code of ethics that would sway him from his chosen path. And he had chosen. A bomb, somewhere in London, and the only way to stop it detonating at random was to lead his team to it, like lambs to the slaughter. Harry thought he could resign himself to that sacrifice; he could trade his life, for the sake of keeping others safe. He could; he'd sworn to it. He took some comfort in knowing that Catherine had recently returned to France with Fabian, and that Will was safely tucked away in Oxford. Yet even as this thought occurred to him, he found that Graham's face swum before his eyes. _Christ,_ he didn't even know where his own son was, didn't know if Graham would be safe from whatever carnage Davie had in mind, or if he'd be caught right in the midst of it.

 _This could well be my fault,_ Adam confessed, and for the second time in as many weeks, Harry found himself betrayed by a member of his own team. The guilt must have got to Adam in the end, then, Harry realized; weighed down by his grief over everything that had happened since the bombing in Tehran, Zaf's death, that horrible business with the Consul's wife, Ros's sticky end, it was all too much, and Adam had broken beneath the weight of his own remorse. He had gone to the journalist Kaplan, with the intent of exposing all their secrets, and he had doomed them all. _His conscience exploded;_ Harry could hear Ruth's voice in his mind, but he had no time for reflection now, no time to add up the cost of his principles. He had a bombing to stop, and he would deal with Adam Carter and his exploding conscience at a later date. Assuming they both survived this day.

" _Is this revenge for losing Ros?" Harry demanded. He had smashed his hand on the table, his knuckles now split and bleeding as he faced Adam head on. How could Adam have done this? Did he think was the only one who was grieving? Did he think he was the only one who had lost someone near and dear to him? Most nights Harry fell asleep with the vision of Ruth's face, her eyes shining with unshed tears as she stepped away from him, his heart shattered in his chest, and still he carried on. "Or hadn't you planned to take us all down with you?" Harry continued, his chest heaving like a bellows as he struggled to keep himself from coming completely unraveled. "Be assured, you and I will discuss this in detail in the very near future. Until then, we deal with the situation as it stands."_

That was all he could say, all that could be said, just now when the clock was ticking and all their lives were drawing to a close. Much as Harry might have enjoyed having the opportunity to give Adam the bollocking of his life, the stark truth remained that in a few hours' time, they might be dead, all of them, down to the last man, and that threw things into rather harsh perspective. There was a job to be done, and as always, no time to grieve. Harry declared Moscow rules, declared his own beloved city enemy territory, and prayed for a miracle.

Adam went out in search of his own redemption, Malcolm went out in search of an internet connection, Jo was in the wind, and Harry found himself alone in the flat with Connie. She'd come bearing news, none of it good, but Harry couldn't help but feel grateful that she was with him now. Davie had been her inside man, during the dark days they'd spent in Northern Ireland together, and she knew better than anyone what that monster was capable of.

"Have a cup of tea, Harry," she said. It occurred to him to wonder both how she had discovered this flat (" _I've known about this place since 1991," she told him, and what the hell was he supposed to make of that?)_ and how she had known where to find the tea things, but Harry was so bloody tired of games and intrigue that he didn't even bother to ask.

"You're worried," Connie observed as she put the kettle on.

"Don't you think I have the right to be, under the circumstances?" Harry responded, pinching the bridge of his nose and trying to will away the headache that was forming just behind his eyes. For her part Connie watched him, looking like nothing so much as an elderly lion, still dangerous, still vicious, still carefully eyeing its prey, despite the silver in its mane and the gradual slowing of its reflexes. It was good having Connie back on the team, having an analyst who actually knew what the bloody hell she was talking about, having someone who knew his history, who could predict his needs. It was, he thought, almost as good as having Ruth by his side. _Almost._

"You will have, once I've told you this," Connie sighed, gingerly traversing the cluttered floor to bring him a cup of tea.

"I hesitate to even mention it," she continued as she sat down beside him on the lumpy sofa, delicately crossing her legs and clutching her own chipped mug of tea in her wrinkled hands. Connie was a good ten years older than Harry, and for once, she looked her age. _Weary_ , he thought, _that's the word. She looks weary._

"When you brought me back onside, I told you, obliquely, that I was aware of the… _unpleasantness_ surrounding Ruth Evershed's departure."

Harry's heart sank like a stone, at the mention of her name. He recalled that conversation very well indeed; just after he'd discovered that he was to be made a knight of the realm, Connie had needled him about there not being a Lady Pearce to attend the ceremony with him. Those words had swirled in his brain ever since, accompanied by an image of Ruth in a lovely dress, Ruth smiling at him, that brilliant, sparkling smile he'd loved so well. Before that moment, it hadn't even occurred to him, but he'd realized the truth as she spoke. If he'd been braver, if he'd been quicker, if he'd been smarter, Ruth would still be with him, and perhaps one day there would have been a Lady Pearce. But some dreams simply were not meant to be.

"What's she got to do with this?" Harry demanded gruffly. Even to his own ears his voice sounded almost wounded, and he felt himself exposed, the gaping hole inside his chest revealed as Connie peeled back the bandages of time and duty he had used to stem the bleeding.

"Everything, or nothing, I don't know, but I have to tell you."

It was an analyst's answer, he thought, garbled and completely indecipherable.

"Connie-"

"In 1984, after the Cookstown bomb, after…his father, Davie went mad." Harry knew this already, of course, and he couldn't fathom why Connie was bringing it up now. "Made his way to England, wrought havoc for months. I know you know this," she added, as if she'd read the impatience in his eyes, "but what you don't know is that one of the first places Davie went, after his father died, was Exeter."

 _Oh Christ._

It seemed to Harry that, rather suddenly, he had forgotten how to breathe. There was no air in the room, his lungs weren't working; his lips moved, but no sound emerged. _What fresh hell is this?_

"It wasn't his first stop; he left Belfast on a boat bound for Holyhead, tried and failed to blow up a market in Cardiff – local police got lucky that day, he'd parked the car illegally and when they went to remove it they stumbled across the bomb." Connie's voice washed over him as his heart pounded erratically in his chest, wishing simultaneously for her to hurry up and get to her point, and wishing that she'd never speak another word again. "He caught another boat in Cardiff, put to shore God only knows where, then hopped on the M5 and made his way down to Exeter. He was furious Harry, mad with grief, and while he no doubt held you responsible, it seems he'd decided that the whole of England should suffer, for what had been done to his father."

"Connie, please." Harry Pearce was not the sort of man who begged, but at this moment in time, he found himself pleading with her to just get on with it. How could she know all this? He wondered. Connie had been sent back to England in disgrace, after Davie went rogue; had she tracked his movements from Thames House? How long had this gone on? How long had she known, and said nothing? _What_ did she know?

"There were girls, Harry. Young girls. I don't know how many. I was able to uncover three names. All of them attacked in the evening, as they were walking home alone. All of them in cities along the M5, following the same route he took. No culprit was ever found, but I'd stake my life on it Harry- it was Davie King. Davie King raped your Ruth."

There was a roaring in Harry's mind like a thousand fighter jets taking off all at once. He leapt to his feet; with a bellow like a wounded animal he flung his mug against the wall, where it shattered into pieces, sparkling amidst the dust and ruins. Unsatisfied with that contained destruction he heaved the table over on its side, one of its legs snapping with a crack like a bone breaking as it collapsed, useless, on the floor. He spun on his heel looking for something else to smash, but his wild eyes landed on Connie's face, and the rage left him all at once. She had known then; Connie had known, had known for years, this secret Ruth had fought so hard to keep, and she had never broken her silence. Connie knew, as did Harry, that the cost of his convictions, the price of his mistakes, could only ever be reckoned in human suffering. As he stood there, gasping for breath, his shoulders slumping beneath the weight of Connie's gaze, Will's face swam before his eyes.

 _She was fourteen,_ he heard Will's voice in his mind. _She was fourteen, and he raped her._

Harry was grateful there was no one else in the flat with them; while Connie watched, he heaved a great sigh, and for the first time since Ruth had left him, he wept.


	24. Chapter 24

**A/N: Many thanks to all of you for your amazing response to the last chapter, and thanks in particular to R4ven3, who made a comment that worked its way into my brain, and eventually, this chapter.**

* * *

 _This was done under my command. It was the single filthiest order I ever gave, and it didn't work._

Harry could not bear to meet any of their eyes, as he revealed his shame. How could he face them, how could he stand beneath their scrutiny as he revealed the truth, revealed himself to be nothing less than a murderer, hiding behind his Saville Row suit and his MI-5 remit? Davie King's father had been tortured and dumped on the street like so much rubbish, by Harry's own order. As a result of that order, Davie had gone mad, had killed God only knew how many people, had ruined countless lives, Ruth's among them.

 _God forgive me._ Her voice echoed in his mind, and he fought the urge to weep once more. Harry was certain he was beyond the point of forgiveness. He felt himself lost in darkness, a dead man with a timer strapped to his wrist, continually counting down the seconds until his destruction. There was no doubt in his mind that he deserved whatever hell he was careening towards, but he could not accept that the five other people currently gathered in this dismal little flat must also lay down their lives as payment for his sins. He decided that whatever power, whatever strength remained to him must be used to keep them safe.

The mobile rang, and Harry regarded it for a moment as if it were a snake poised to strike. He knew what waited for him on the other end of that call. Nothing more and nothing less than a monster of his own creation.

"Davie," Harry said, keeping his voice low and even. He had learned long ago how to bury his emotions, how to remain still and calm in the face of villainy, in the face of terror, in the face of devastation. This was Davie's game, and he would play it through to its conclusion.

And so they spoke. It was strange, to hear that familiar, vile voice in his ear once more, after more than two decades of silence. Strange, to know that there were some wrongs that could not be undone, some mistakes that would never cease to haunt his steps, some ghosts that would never sleep in peace. Strange, to know that a man this evil, a man this brutal could have fathered a child as good and strong and kind as Will.

 _Don't think about that now, or you'll go stark raving mad,_ he told himself. He could not think about Davie, could not think about Ruth, could not think about the horror that had been Will's conception. With the help of his team, he focused on the job at hand. They had a time, they had a location, and when they arrived they would have thirty seconds to clear the area of civilians, and pray for a miracle. Harry had long ago stopped believing that his prayers would ever be answered, but he had never, and would never, stop believing in his team.

 _I suggest we make our peace with our various gods and go._

And so they did.

* * *

In Gabriel Plaza, their plan came together. Malcolm and Connie huddled behind the taxi with their kit, waiting for the moment to jam the frequencies and hopefully buy them enough time for the rest of the plan to work. Jo and Kaplan crouched on their heels, ready to spring up and run at a moment's notice. Adam watched him, warily, his eyes echoing the words he'd shouted at Harry only a few moments before as they raced towards their destination.

" _It's madness, Harry,"_ _Adam insisted. "It's damn near suicidal."_

" _It's me he wants, Adam. He accepted this job because he's spent the last twenty-three years trying to find a way to kill me. It's an opportunity he won't be able to pass up. He'll want to take that shot himself, and we need a distraction. There is no other way."_

And so Harry had donned a bullet-proof vest beneath his shirt and jacket, and announced that he would hear no more on the subject. In a way Adam had a point; the vest only helped him in the event Davie chose not to shoot him in the head, and there was no way to know for certain what course Davie's revenge would take. No way to know for certain, except that Harry knew Davie King, knew the way he thought, the way he operated; _cause as much carnage as possible, and then run as fast as you can,_ that was Davie's way. Davie didn't just want to kill Harry, he wanted him to suffer, and a shot to the head would not satisfy a man like Davie King. He would want to watch Harry bleeding on the pavement, want to watch him writhing in pain, want to see him struggle in vain to staunch the bleeding as his life ebbed away. There was no need to explain to all this Adam, and no time besides. Harry had given his orders, and that was that.

In the end, the plan worked spectacularly well. Davie shot Harry in the chest, as Harry had known he would, and in so doing he gave away his location, and Jo and Kaplan took off running. Adam and Connie disconnected the bomb, the scene was secured, and Harry breathed a sigh of relief. Or he would have done, if he could have; his ribs were bruised and pained him with the slightest breath. A sigh would have been quite beyond him, at that moment in time.

When the dust settled, Connie went to Jason Belling, the Home Secretary's policy advisor, and the truth came out. It was all just politics, then; Harry and his team had been placed in the line of fire by their own government, marked "acceptable losses" by the very people they had sworn to protect, all in the name of some back room international deal. It didn't sit well with Harry; before the madness in Tehran, Harry had believed Nicholas Blake to be a good man, an honorable man. Now he saw the truth, and it turned his stomach. Blake was the sort of man who could order the bombing of a civilian train, who could trade the lives of five officers of the Security Services and a renegade journalist besides, just to see his own goals achieved. _I'll have to watch this man very carefully, in the future,_ Harry thought, even as he leaned against the Home Secretary's desk, and delivered his own ultimatum.

 _Today, you and I may part as friends, but if ever I have cause to learn that we are no longer friends, you will have cause to learn exactly what kind of bastard I can be._

With that Harry left him. He had other business to attend to on this day.

* * *

"I was wondering when I was going to see your ugly mug," Davie spat as Harry entered the room. For the last twenty-four hours Davie King had been held in one of the basement cells of the complex that Her Majesty's government had delivered into Connie's care. As far as the HS and the rest of his ilk were concerned, Davie had escaped, and Harry had every intention of keeping it that way. He had unfinished business with Davie King, and he didn't want any interruptions.

Connie was leaning against the doorway, watching them both with her Sphinx-like gaze, her expression utterly unreadable. None of the rest of the team had asked after Davie's fate, not even Jo, who had been responsible for bringing him down. They didn't know, couldn't know, just how far Harry's enmity for this man went, but they had all quietly come to the conclusion that they were better off remaining in the dark on this one. All save Connie, who had quietly volunteered to take charge of him while Harry dealt with other matters.

"I'll leave you to it," she said, passing Harry a set of old silver keys. "Clean up, when you're finished, then come have a cup of tea." This last she delivered in a voice no more than a whisper, giving his arm a reassuring little squeeze before slipping through the door, and closing it behind her.

And then, for the first time in twenty-three years, Harry found himself alone in a room with Davie King.

Time had changed them both, but it had been kinder to Davie than to Harry, and in that moment, Harry was painfully aware of his own physical failings. A bum knee had relegated him to a desk, and had in turn resulted in the steady decline of his own once-muscular frame, while Davie still carried himself with a whip-like lethalness, a latent sort of power that could not be denied. Barrel-chested and long-haired he knelt uncomfortably on the floor, his wrists and ankles fettered by chains that screwed into the wall. _There's something distinctly medieval about this,_ Harry mused.

"It was just business, Harry," Davie said with a shrug that would have come off as nonchalant, if his movement had not been so restricted by his restraints.

"Perhaps for you," Harry responded. After a moment's hesitation, Harry crossed the room and, using the keys that Connie had given him, he freed his nemesis from his bindings, and even offered him a hand as the man struggled to stand. Harry had not completely lost his sense; he kept Davie's hands cuffed behind his back, but he at least gave him the opportunity to face death standing on his feet.

"What is this, Harry?" Davie asked him suspiciously.

"Have you ever been to Exeter, Davie?" Harry asked in a dangerous whisper.

The question seemed to catch him unawares; Davie stared at him for a long moment, his eyes searching Harry's face. _What do you see when you look at me, Davie?_ Harry wondered. His face was more lined, more tired than it had been the last time the pair of them had stood in a room together. He had left his jacket upstairs, and his shirt was wrinkled, his collar unbuttoned and his sleeves rolled up to his elbows as he prepared himself to face his demons. _What sort of_ _man have I become?_

"Might have," Davie answered evasively.

"I think you have, Davie. I think you were in Exeter in October of 1984."

Davie's shoulders slumped a bit at that. "I suppose there's no point in denying it?" he said, a rueful sort of edge to his voice.

"Do you remember the girl?" Harry asked. His whole body was trembling with barely controlled rage, but still, he did not raise his voice. Never in his life had he experienced a conversation more painful, or more necessary, than this one, and he was determined to finish what he'd come here to do. It seemed to him that over time he had traded away his heart, piece by piece, in the name of the service, had lost that certain something that made a man human, that distinguished him from his enemies. Sacrifices had been made, in the name of the greater good, and they had begun to take their toll. He was not the man he had been thirty years ago, and in this moment, he could not bring himself to repent. There would be time later for reflection and recrimination. In that moment, Harry Pearce and Davie King stood together in that room, and death stood with them.

"No, actually," Davie admitted. "You'd think I would, all things considered, but I can't even picture her face."

Harry could. Harry fell asleep with her face plastered on the backs of his eyelids. Harry saw her face in his dreams. Harry carried a picture of her tattooed on his heart.

"She had dark hair, and the bluest eyes. She was fourteen, Davie. _Fourteen."_

For all that he felt himself adrift, cut off from his own better angels, still Harry could not allow Davie King to die without giving him an opportunity to atone for his sins, to make his final confession.

"She was English," Davie spat.

 _Do I tell him?_ Harry wondered. _Does he deserve to know?_ Up until this moment, Harry had kept Will a secret, kept him safe and sheltered from all save Zaf and Malcolm. In a way that secret had helped Harry feel closer to the woman he loved, the woman who was now lost to him forever. Could he share that wonderful, terrible secret with a piece of human refuse like Davie King?

 _No._

"Her name was Ruth Evershed, and what I do, I do for her." Before Davie even realized what was happening, Harry had pulled the gun he'd tucked in the waistband of his trousers, hidden until now nestled against the small of his back. In the space of a heartbeat, Harry raised the weapon and fired. At that close range, he didn't even take time to aim properly; he didn't need to. The bullet found its home, and Davie King slumped to the floor, dead.

Harry dropped the gun on top of the body, and used the back of his hand to wipe away the blood that splattered his face. _What I do, I do for her,_ he thought.

* * *

It took some time, for Harry to clean his face and hands, and then he went in search of the clear plastic tarp Connie had set aside for him. It took even longer for him to clean up the mess in the little cell, but he persevered; there was no need for him to involve Connie more than he already had done. When it was finished he went upstairs, and found Connie in her sitting room. She was standing by the window, a tea tray ready and waiting on the little table in the center of the room. At the sound of his footsteps she turned to face him, her expression grave.

"Is it done?" she asked.

Harry nodded dumbly; he wasn't certain he could speak.

"Sit down, Harry," she said gently.

When he didn't move, she crossed the room, took him by the arm, and guided him into a chair. She poured a cup of tea, gave him a speculative sort of look, and then added a generous splash from one of the liquor bottles standing on the table in the corner. Connie pushed the cup into his hands, and sat down beside him.

"Drink," she said.

So Harry drank, and sat in silence, and Connie sat with him, while outside the window the sun sank, and slowly plunged them into darkness.


	25. Chapter 25

**A/N: I'm going away for a few days; I will try to write, but I can't make any promises.**

* * *

When Harry woke, groggy and disoriented and slumped into a corner of Connie's battered old sofa, he didn't immediately know where he was. The room was dark, and he couldn't recall how he'd come to be there. As he struggled to pull himself upright, images from the day before flashed in his mind, and he sighed, rubbing his hands over his face as if to banish the demons from view. There was a part of him, however small, that feared he had crossed a line, in killing Davie King. The man was a monster, a murderer, a violent psychopath, but still, Harry believed strongly in the rule of law. He fought for it, fought for justice, every day of his life. How could he devote himself to the cause of freedom, knowing he had deemed himself Davie King's judge, jury, and executioner?

 _There will be no trial for Davie King,_ he thought. _I have seen to that._

"Oh good, you're awake."

Harry jumped, at the sound of Connie's voice from the doorway. She was leaning there, a mug of tea cradled in her hands and, as ever, an inscrutable expression on her face.

"What time is it?" he croaked in a voice hoarse from sleep.

"Nearly five," she answered. He must have looked as incredulous as he felt, to discover that Connie was up and dressed and impatient at nearly five in the morning. "I don't sleep like I used to," she continued.

"Nor do I," Harry said sadly.

"Coffee? Or tea?"

Harry rose unsteadily to his feet, tugging at his wrinkled, bloodstained shirt. "Coffee, please," he said. He wasn't quite ready to leave yet; he felt as if his mind was still half asleep, and he didn't quite trust himself to drive.

Connie turned and silently led the way through her cluttered hall, and into the kitchen. The jumble of objects that littered her house, most seemingly worthless but all certainly significant to her in some way, reminded him forcefully of Ruth. The controlled chaos of her desk, the warm, eclectic atmosphere of her home; he hadn't realized how much he had grown accustomed to her charming brand of disorder, until it disappeared from his life entirely.

Apparently Connie, like Ruth, possessed an uncanny knack for reading his mind; when he joined her in the kitchen, he found that she had already made him a cup of coffee, and it was steaming cheerily on the counter. She passed it over, her eyes boring into his.

"Do you want to tell me about it?" she asked.

Harry took a sip of his coffee, wincing slightly as it burned his tongue. For a long moment he considered the wisdom of answering that question. A man in his position couldn't afford to go unburdening himself to his subordinates; any

"I can't help thinking, she wouldn't thank me for what I've done."

"Ruth?"

"Yes," he sighed. _Christ_ , but he missed hearing her name.

"Why not? She's only human. Deep down we're very simple creatures, appeased by simple things. Good food, good drink, a good revenge."

It didn't go unnoticed by Harry that Connie referred to Ruth in the present tense. Not for the first time, he found himself wondering just what Connie knew, and how she knew it. Ruth could ferret out any piece of information, any time, anywhere, but her methods were plain. She used a network of acquaintances, a disarming smile, a boundless wealth of intelligence, and just enough technical know-how to break into almost organization she chose. Connie, though; until a few months ago Connie had been retired, entirely cut off from the resources of the Grid, forgotten by most everyone, except for those who despised her. How had she managed to learn about Ruth, without friends and without a security clearance to help her?

"Ruth was different," Harry said, deciding that now was not the time to ask such questions. "She was good, and kind, and she was…principled." _Not foolish, or naïve._

"Christ, Harry, she's a woman. She's flesh and blood, like the rest of us, and you'd do well to remember it. Don't go putting her up on a pedestal."

Harry merely grunted at that. Connie hadn't known Ruth as he had, hadn't lived through the many ups and downs that had been the last few years on the Grid. What made Ruth different, what made her, well, _Ruth,_ was her heart. She was compassionate, but brave, and she knew what it cost, to stand up in defense of her principles. She had sacrificed her very life for those principles, for the belief that the government could not, _should_ not be allowed to engage in torture, no matter how vile the suspects in question might be. How could such a woman ever care for a man like him?

"You did the right thing, Harry," Connie said firmly.

"Did I?" Even to his own ears he sounded defeated, weak, almost.

"Yes. How many people did Davie King murder? How many little girls did he attack? That man was a stain on this planet, and you and I understand what so many people out there don't – sometimes, the only thing standing between this world and utter ruin is a good man and the strength of his convictions. This is the business we're in, Harry. Sometimes it's dirty, but it serves a purpose."

"The greater good," Harry mused.

"Precisely. Now go home, put on some clean clothes, and pull yourself together."

Harry wasn't capable of smiling, at that moment, but he came very close. He gave her a little nod, and then did as he was told.

* * *

Harry spent much of the next forty-eight hours on the Grid, furiously trying to undo the damage that had been done during his team's suspension. There were phone calls to be returned, reports to be edited, politicians to be appeased, and, as always, never enough time. The opportunity to bury himself in work was a godsend for Harry, though, and he relished every moment, enthroned behind his desk in his office where he belonged. It would be quite a while, before he found a way to work with Nicholas Blake again, before he regained some semblance of normalcy after learning that his own government had tried to kill him, but Harry was an adaptable creature. He knew that this was the way the game was played; enemies and friends changed sides with alarming frequency, and the spook who couldn't keep up was living on borrowed time.

His feet were dragging, when he finally made his way home that Friday night. He had given his driver the day off, choosing instead to clamber behind the wheel of the Range Rover himself. Sometimes, a man just wanted to be alone with his thoughts. With thoughts of a beautiful woman, and a life that could have been. The Grand Tour, sleepy Saturdays spent wrapped up in one another's arms, more dinner dates, more quiet chats; there were so many things Harry wanted, so many things he'd been denied, and as he drove he thought of them all, choking on his own regrets.

His musings were interrupted as he shuffled up the steps and into his house; there was a light on inside, and he was certain he hadn't left it that way. _Christ, not now,_ he thought; he was too tired to deal with more spook nonsense. He wanted a drink, and then he wanted to fall into bed, and he found he simply didn't possess the energy to face any more surprises. His suspense was short lived, however; as he opened the door, he heard a voice call out from the sitting room, "Harry? Mate, there's some pizza in here if you want it."

 _Will._

What the bloody hell was he doing here? Harry couldn't recall their having discussed his coming to stay, and yet, as he walked into his sitting room, there sat Will, feet up on the coffee table, pizza balanced precariously on his stomach, beer in hand, watching the telly.

"Make yourself at home," Harry said with a sardonic sort of turn to his mouth. Inwardly, he was quite pleased to see how comfortable Will was in this house.

Will gave him a cheeky smile. "You look like hell, mate."

Harry took a piece of pizza from the box at Will's feet, and then slumped into his armchair. "Long day at the office," he said shortly.

Will snorted a bit at that, but he didn't push the issue. That was one of the things Harry quite liked about Will; this young man possessed a certain respect for privacy, no doubt drilled into him by his mother, and he knew when not to pry.

"Not that I'm not pleased to see you, but what brought this on?" Harry asked before taking a bite of his dinner. The pizza was cold and greasy, but it was a meal he didn't have to cook, and he was grateful for it.

"I'm leaving for Paris in a few days, and I needed to get my passport from mum's. Thought I'd stop in and say hello before I left."

Even now, almost a full year later, it was still strange to hear Will refer to Ruth as his mum. Harry supposed he'd get used to it eventually, but it was still somewhat jarring to be reminded of just how much she'd hidden from him. Of course, this thought led Harry's mind back to Davie King, and his mood darkened considerably. Surely Will had a right to know who his father had been, Harry thought; but did he need to know what had become of him? Would it do him any good, or would it only cause him misery? The lad had been through so much already, and Harry was loath to lay any more pain at his feet.

"You've got a weird look on your face," Will said from the other side of the room. He dropped his feet to the floor, turned off the telly, and sat up a bit straighter. "What is it? Is it mum?"

 _This young man is entirely too observant for his own good,_ Harry thought ruefully.

For a time he chewed his pizza in silence, feeling the tension mounting between them. This was a long story, and an old one, and there were parts of it Harry knew he could not share with Will. The difficulty would be in finding a balance, between what Will needed to know, and what he didn't. Finally, though, Harry could put him off no longer.

"I know we haven't talked much, about your father," he said carefully.

Will crossed his arms and leaned back against the couch cushions, his normally cheerful countenance suddenly grown dark and suspicious. "There's not much to talk about," he said shortly.

"No," Harry agreed in a placating sort of voice. "I don't know if…if you even want to know this, Will. But I found him."

"You found him," Will repeated incredulously. "And how did you manage that? The police-"

"The police didn't know what they were looking for. They had too many suspects, and not enough information. We found him, because we were following him, and one of our analysts put it together."

Will rose to his feet, and began to pace, clutching his beer tightly in both hands. In that moment, Harry's heart broke for the young man in front of him. _He deserves better,_ Harry thought. _I never should have said anything, I should have let him live his life in peace…_

"What's his name?" Will demanded from across the room.

 _On your head be it, Pearce_. "His name was Davie King."

"Was?" Will stopped pacing, staring at him with those eyes, so wide and blue and terrified.

Harry nodded. "I'm sorry, Will, but he's dead."

At this, Will flopped back onto the sofa, and buried his head in his hands. "Are you sure?" Will asked from behind his fingers.

Harry nearly laughed aloud, but there was no levity in him. _As sure as I can be, considering I'm the one who shot him, I'm the one who buried him._

"Yes."

Silence reigned between them for a long time. Harry wondered how Will must have felt; he couldn't begin to imagine it. Harry's own father had been a good man, if somewhat distant, but Harry had _known_ him. He knew his story, knew his faults and his strengths and the sound of his voice. What must it be like, to have nothing but secondhand accounts, and all of them unspeakable?

"Davie King," Will said finally, raising his head to stare across at Harry. "Who was he?"

 _Christ, don't make me answer that question._ "He was Irish. He was… he was not a good man, Will." The lad made a scornful, derisive sound at that, but Harry continued undaunted. "And who he was has no bearing on who you are."

"Doesn't it?" Will asked bitterly. "He was my father. Whatever he was, whatever he did, that man is a part of me."

"You are your mother's son," Harry told him gently. "Every good, decent thing about her, she gave to you. _That_ is what matters, Will."

With a ragged sigh, Will buried his face in his hands once more, and began to weep.

With much protesting from his weary limbs, Harry heaved himself out of his chair, and crossed the room to sit beside Will on the sofa. He draped his arm around the lad's shoulders, and Will crumpled against his chest, sobbing like a child. For quite some time Harry held him, and let his grief run its course. This was not why Will had come to him tonight, and the weight of his guilt settled heavy on Harry's heart. He had wounded the boy, in more ways than Will even knew, and he felt he owed it to him, to offer him what comfort he could.

"I miss her," Will said quietly as he pulled himself away from Harry's arms, sniffling a little as he scrubbed the tears from his cheeks.

"So do I," Harry admitted. _And never more than now._


	26. Chapter 26

**A.N: And we're back! Apologies for the delay, I really did think I was going to have more times to write.**

* * *

 _2 June 2005_

Ruth was sitting quietly at her desk, covertly tracking Harry's progress from behind her computer monitor. As an analyst, she knew she had a duty to provide her Section Head with every available piece of information in order to neutralize the present threat. As a mother, though, she had her reservations about revealing her latest discovery. The photograph of Mary, their mercenary's daughter, lay atop his file on her desk. This little girl could be the key to breaking Morgan, but Ruth took no joy in having located her. She was only eight; not that much older than Adam and Fiona's little Wes, and gravely ill as well.

As she struggled to come to a decision regarding Mary, Ruth recalled her own son at that age. Will had always been a bright child, clever and cheerful, endlessly inquisitive. What was Mary like? Ruth wondered. Was she still afraid of the dark? Will had all but outgrown that fear by the time he was eight years old, but she knew it lingered in some children. Did she struggle with maths, as Will had done? Maths was the only school subject that didn't come easily to Will, and Ruth had spent countless nights sitting with him at their kitchen table, muddling through his schoolwork together. Maths was the only thing they ever really fought about when he was young, she recalled with a sad little smile.

If Ruth revealed Mary's existence to Harry, what would their Section do with this information? Would Harry truly allow Adam to threaten a little girl, a little girl with a sweet face and a terrible illness? Ruth continued to watch him, contemplating Harry, and the sort of man he was. He had a daughter of his own, Ruth knew. He could be hard, when the occasion called for it, could be downright ruthless; that was part of his job. But he could be kind, as well; surely he had been kind to his daughter. Tended to her hurts, assuaged her fears. Maybe he had helped Catherine with maths, too. Surely Harry wouldn't go this far, wouldn't dare to hurt a child, a child who had nothing to do with her father's questionable business dealings.

Would he?

Before she could make up her mind, Harry approached her instead.

"Is there any area we don't touch?"

The question was out before she could stop herself. Ruth knew, deep down, that she had no choice, but still, the thought of what might happen to this little girl as result of Ruth's own efforts left a bitter taste in her mouth. And Ruth was afraid, terribly afraid, that if she continued in this job, continued to make these sorts of choices, to be an active participant in this sort of treachery, she might wake up one day and find herself no longer concerned with the human cost of their work.

"Ethics? Here?"

Of course Harry didn't understand what she was talking about; he thought she was still quizzing him in preparation for the DG interview. Ruth had no smiles for him now, though; her heart was torn, between her duty and her sense of compassion for this child, and it was Harry she turned to for absolution, for guidance.

Haltingly Ruth explained Mary's situation, and beside her, she watched as Harry sighed and slumped his shoulders. It affected him, too, she realized. However he might try to appear unwavering in his dedication to doing whatever was necessary to protect his country, somewhere inside Harry still harbored doubts. Strangely, that thought comforted her. Harry was just a man, after all, a man with a heart and a conscience and a strong desire to do good. Ruth prayed that he would make the right decision, where Mary was concerned, that he would help Adam toe the line, for this little girl's sake.

"Do you never draw the line on this stuff?"

Ruth genuinely wanted an answer to that question. For a moment, she thought Harry was going to reach out and place his hand on her shoulder, perhaps to offer her some comfort, but he tucked his hand in his pocket instead. And when he did, Ruth found she was bitterly disappointed. Any sort of contact, however fleeting, however benign, would have been welcome just then, when she was overcome with guilt and fear. And it would have been doubly welcome coming from Harry himself.

"We have to do the best we can with what's available to us, Ruth," he told her. "I can promise you, whatever Adam says, I won't allow any harm to come to this little girl. I won't allow our agents to frighten her."

It was the best Ruth could hope for under the circumstances, and so she nodded as she handed the file over to Harry. He offered her a sad smile, a smile she returned gratefully, and then he left her. As he walked away, Ruth found herself feeling more conflicted than ever. Not just about Mary, though she was still deeply troubled about what Adam might do once he found about the child. It was more than that; she realized that she _wanted_ Harry to touch her, wanted to feel the warmth of his hand against her shoulder, wanted that connection to him. And that want, that small, slowly blooming desire that had taken root in her heart, that tiny flicker of hope that warmed her from the inside out every time he came near, absolutely terrified her. Could she have chosen anyone more unsuitable? He was her boss, seventeen years her senior, and blissfully unaware of the existence of her son. Ruth had learned a lot about maths, during all those nights she'd spent teaching Will, and this particular equation only added up to disaster.

 _Still, though,_ she thought, _he does look nice today._

* * *

 _3 June 2005_

They did use the girl, in the end, but to Ruth's eternal relief, Mary never learned the truth of the little outing she and Danny had undertaken. Mary had never truly been in any danger, Morgan gave Adam the information they needed, and for once, all was well. Will and Emma had agreed to reschedule their dinner, and Ruth found herself once more touching up her make-up before heading out to meet them. And once more, Harry sought her out.

They were alone on the Grid. In itself that was not unusual; with Will away at Oxford and no one at home to greet her but the cats, Ruth often found herself working late, though never as late as Harry. As she looked up at him, she wondered how many times they had found themselves alone, in the dark, working in such close proximity, and yet always maintaining a professional distance. Or perhaps not so professional, if she were being honest. More and more, Harry was coming to her, chatting with her quietly as they wiled away the hours together, and though their conversations remained for the most part work-related, there was something…intimate, about the private nature of those discussions, as if they were a little secret only Ruth and Harry shared. Ruth kept more than her fair share of secrets, but unlike all the others, this one made her _happy_. She treasured it, as she treasured every moment she spent in Harry's company.

"See? Wrongs righted, evildoers brought to heel, miracles performed. Is there no end to our goodness, Ruth?"

When Harry spoke his voice was low and warm, and she couldn't help the smile that bloomed across her face when she heard it.

He handed her the letter he'd received regarding the DG position, explaining that he had been passed over, as intended. Somehow, though, he didn't seem happy about it; his face had taken on that pout she found so completely adorable.

"But that's what you wanted," she pointed out, trying to understand his displeasure. In her heart, Ruth was relieved; she didn't even want to contemplate what would happen to the Grid, if Harry were no longer occupying the Section Head's office. She tried to tell herself that she wanted him to remain because he was so very good at his job, and not because some days the only thing that got her out of bed and into work in the morning was the thought of seeing his face.

"Yes, but it's annoying when the best man for the job is passed over for a politician."

 _Ah, yes,_ she thought. Harry's legendary hatred of politicians once again reared its ugly head. Privately, Ruth agreed; she would much prefer a DG who had spent time in the trenches, who truly understood the work they did. As long as that person wasn't Harry.

"It seems you were right," he continued.

"Yes," she answered, beaming. "But I'm pleased."

 _Oh no._ She hadn't meant to say that, to confess to her relief at the knowledge that he wasn't leaving them, wasn't leaving _her._ Harry quirked an eyebrow at her; there was something almost triumphant in his expression, visible for only moment before Danny interrupted them. Ruth didn't know whether she wanted to kick Danny or kiss him, for cutting off the question that Harry had very nearly asked her. He had come to complain about some damage done to his flat while Fiona had taken up residence there; Ruth only just managed to refrain from rolling her eyes at him.

"Off out are we, Ruth?" Harry asked her, clearly not interested in continuing to indulge Danny's complaints.

"Yes, I'm only three days late," she answered. As she rose from her chair and gathered her belongings, she didn't miss the little grimace that passed across Harry's face at those words.

 _What is that about?_ She wondered, her heart leaping up into her throat. Why should Harry pull such a face upon learning that she was going out? Unless he, like Sam, assumed she was going on a date. But why would that make him unhappy?

 _Don't even think about it,_ she told herself sternly, even as she fought the urge to confess to him that it wasn't a date at all. _It's all in your head, he doesn't fancy you, let it go._

"And if anything happens between here and the pods, please don't tell me." This last she delivered over her shoulder, in an attempt at friendly banter. _That's all you are, and all you'll be,_ she told herself. _Just friends._

As she approached the pods, she heard Harry call out behind her.

"Ruth?"

She was grinning fit to burst; Harry Pearce was teasing her, she realized. And she quite liked it, though she did not abate the pace of her departure.

"I'm not listening!" She shouted back.

As the pod whirred closed behind her, the faint sound of Harry's laughter rung in her ears like a cheerful, tinkling bell.


	27. Chapter 27

Will sat alone at the little pub across the street from the hostel where he and Mark were staying on their last night in Rome. He had been nearly two months on the road, first in Paris, then wandering across Normandy, through Germany, and down to Austria. Mark had joined him in Italy two weeks ago, and they had divided their time between museums and bars, getting roaring drunk and taking silly photos next to famous landmarks. Though there had been times, while Will was travelling by himself, when the loneliness had been almost overwhelming, it had been exhilarating in its own way, knowing he was free to go where he chose, when he chose. In quiet moments, he contemplated never returning to England. It wouldn't be so hard, he supposed, to just keep going, traversing Europe until his money ran out and he crashed in some godforsaken little village with a name he couldn't pronounce. The funds from the "sale" of his mother's home wouldn't last indefinitely, he knew, but he was twenty-two years old, young and free and willfully burning through his savings at an alarming rate.

Mark had wandered off with a disturbingly vacant look on his face and an unbelievably attractive Italian girl on his arm, and so Will sat, staring at a very large glass of beer, thinking hard. Not once, throughout his travels, had he rung Harry. Before he left, he'd assured the older man that he'd keep in touch, and he had dutifully sent an email or two, just to let Harry know he was still alive and doing well, but he had dodged Harry's calls, and refused to return them.

It wasn't that Will was angry with him, exactly. Will had stayed the night with Harry, that night when his whole world turned upside down, but he'd gone back to his mother's house the very next morning, and he had not seen Harry since. In a way, Will understood why Harry had done it, had told him his father's name. However monstrous he might have been, whatever unspeakable things he might have done, Davie King was Will's father, and Will deserved to know his name. He was grateful to Harry, for telling him.

But somewhere, deep in his heart, Will had begun to scream the moment Harry told him, and he hadn't stopped.

In the beginning, Will had scoured the internet, searching for some clue as to his father's history. It was a natural response, for a boy who had grown up wandering the streets of Oxford, raised in a house where his mother was as likely to respond to him in Latin as in English. Ruth had taught him to never settle, to always seek the answers to his questions, that whatever truth he longed for could be found if only he'd look hard enough. There was no trace of Davie King, though, no archived news articles or obituaries, and this left Will feeling more than a little uneasy. He had searched for his mother in much the same way, and found a few veiled references; an article about her winning _University Challenge,_ a photo of her buried in an archive of old Oxford degree ceremonies, the atrocious little obituary his gran had run in the Cheltenham paper after her supposed death. She'd been a spy, and an intensely private person, but he'd still been able to find some proof that she'd existed, that she'd lived. There was no such evidence where his father was concerned, and Will wasn't sure whether or not he ought to be happy about that.

What was he hoping to find? That question troubled him deeply. Harry had said only that Davie King _was not a good man,_ which, given what he'd done to Ruth, was hardly surprising. And then Harry had explained that _we were following him; Christ Almighty,_ Will thought, what could he have possibly done that would put him on MI-5's radar? In his own way, Harry had supplied that answer; Davie King was Irish, and had been, for lack of a better word, _active_ during the 1980s, and Will knew his history well enough to read between the lines. Perhaps the man had been some sort of Republican operative. Not that it mattered, really; whatever his politics, Davie King remained a monster.

A dead monster, though. And how had that come to pass? That question festered in the back of Will's mind as well. How old had he been, when he attacked Ruth on a quiet street in Exeter? Had he perished from something as common as cancer, as embarrassing as a pub brawl, as horrific as a gunfight or an explosion? Was it some random act of violence, or had he been targeted specifically, finally held accountable for his crimes? Did it matter?

Will wasn't sure. Did it matter how the man had died, if it had happened before he'd ever been made to answer for what he'd done to Ruth? Did it matter why he died, when Will had been denied the chance to face him, to look him in the eye and see all those little pieces of himself reflected in the face of a man he hated more than anyone he had ever known?

The anger, the fear, the confusion that swirled through him had not abated, during the long weeks he'd spent away from home, and it was this tumult of feelings that kept him from reaching out to Harry. Harry had dropped this news at Will's feet, had been the impetus for all of his turmoil, and Will could not turn to him for comfort now. He thought that Harry might have the answers to all of his questions, and he was as frightened by this prospect as he was intrigued by it.

For Harry himself remained something of an unknown quantity. They had grown close, over the last year, had turned to one another for help and companionship as they both struggled to overcome the hole left in their lives by Ruth's departure. Will had come to trust Harry, but he worried his trust might have been misplaced. What did he know about the man, anyway? He knew that Harry was kind, and gentle towards animals, and that he was a spy, a liar by trade, a soldier at heart, a man who had no doubt killed others.

And so Will sat, and brooded, and stared at his mobile, wondering if he'd ever find the courage to speak to Harry again.

* * *

Wes was playing rugby today. It was a beautiful November Sunday, the sun shining brightly down to warm them despite the crisp autumn chill that hung in the air. Harry stood on the sidelines, feeling that sun on his face, his heart heavy as lead in his chest.

It didn't seem real, didn't seem possible, that Adam Carter was dead. He'd gone through so much, had come so close to devastation, and yet always before, he'd managed to escape with his life. His face swam before Harry's eyes, laughing as he said _let it all just crinkle out;_ yes, that was how he had lived. Optimistic and impulsive and recklessly brave. There was no one braver, no one more determined, than Adam bloody Carter. Adam, who had lost his beloved wife, and nearly shattered; Adam who had rallied, and found some piece of solitude with Ros, only to have her taken from him, too. Adam, who had died, desperately trying to save people who would never know his name.

They told the papers that the body found inside the car had belonged to the bomber, in order to assuage the public's fears. No one would ever know the truth, save for those paltry few working tirelessly within the walls of Thames House, those few who had loved him best.

 _Christ, what do I tell him?_ Harry wondered, as he watched Adam's tow-haired little boy rushing around the field. Young Wes had seen so much heartbreak already, having lost his darling mum. _Oh, Fiona,_ Harry thought, remembering her grisly end even as he heard the sound of the explosion that killed Adam echoing in his mind. It would not do, to tell the boy that his father had died in fire and agony, that a few seconds had made the difference between his life and his death. It would not do, to fill the child's mind with such images, with such bitter disappointment at how very close Adam had come to walking away unscathed. Wes was just a boy, and he had no need of further fuel for his nightmares.

Jo had agreed to ring Fiona's parents, to break the news and ask them to come and fetch the boy, and Harry had agreed to take him back to his own house in the interim. As he watched the game, Harry prayed Wes would not see him. _Keep running, lad,_ Harry thought. _Enjoy every second, be happy, now, while you still can._

As he stood there, Harry was all too aware of how he must have looked. There were a few spectators huddled together on the other side of the field; fathers and mothers, sisters and brothers, cheering their boys on from beneath thick woolen blankets, their hands wrapped around steaming cups of tea, their faces bright and their expressions jubilant. It was just another Sunday to them, though some had marked the occasion by pinning poppies to their lapels. Harry knew what sort of picture he must make, standing alone as he was, dressed all in black with a somber cast to his face. _The angel of death,_ he thought. Ruth's voice drifted through his mind, a vague recollection from an operation they'd worked together, trying to stymie a group of Hindu nationalists; _now I am become death, destroyer of worlds,_ she'd quoted to him then. _Where was that from?_ He wondered. She would know the source of the phrase, he was sure, and could probably recite it to him in its original tongue, but its origin eluded him now.

He didn't have long to ponder it; Wes had seen him.

Time seemed to freeze for a moment, as Wes stood stock-still, staring at him from across the field. _Do you know why I've come, lad? Do you see your own devastation in my face?_

Wes Carter was a bright young boy, and he knew it was his father, and not his Uncle Harry, who was meant to come and fetch him today. He knew there was only one reason why Harry should be the one standing there, staring at him morosely across the field. All around him, his compatriots ran and shouted and ploughed into one another, but it seemed as if a sort of force field surrounded Wes, as if he stood enveloped in a bubble, untouched by the game playing out around him, hardly daring to move less the truth come up and knock him from his feet.

They could not remain frozen forever, though, and eventually Wes took a halting step towards him, and then another, and then the boy was running, sprinting across the field until he collided with Harry, who wrapped his arms around the lad, and held him while he wept. There was no need for words, in that moment; Wes knew, had seen the horror in Harry's eyes, and there was nothing that Harry could have said to lessen the boy's pain. So Wes cried, and Harry held him, and they drew a shroud of grief and privacy around them.

It felt like hours passed, standing there on that field with Wes Carter shaking in his arms, but in truth they lingered no more than a moment or two. The game had ground to a halt, children rising up on their tiptoes to peer across at the old man and the boy, parents pointing and whispering, and over the top of Wes's head Harry caught sight of the rugby coach striding towards them.

"Let's go home, Wes," Harry said softly. He shifted his grip, draping one arm around Wes's trembling shoulders, and guided him off the field without another word.

* * *

Will knew he ought to wait until morning. He'd been back on British soil for less than two hours, it was late, he was hungry, he was lugging a bag that weighed nearly as much as he did, and he was in desperate need of a shower and a bed. Still though, he found that his feet had taken him, not to the tube station that would lead to his mother's house, but to the bus stop that would take him to Harry's. He rode along in silence, staring once more at his mobile, wondering if he ought to ring Harry first, if he ought to announce his impending arrival. He'd never really done that in the past; he'd felt comfortable at Harry's, and Harry knew it. Will didn't want to give any sign of just how troubled he was.

So he sat, and fidgeted, and prayed that Harry would not be home. He could use the key, the same key Harry had given him last year when he'd looked after Scarlet, and he'd punch his mother's birthday into the alarm keypad, and trundle upstairs for a shower and some sleep. Yes, he thought, that might be best; let him rest, and face Harry over breakfast in the morning.

He disembarked two blocks from Harry's house, and slogged through the streets, wishing once again that he'd at least taken the time to drop his bag off at home. It was bloody heavy, and he was bloody tired.

When he reached Harry's house, he was somewhat disappointed to find a light shining behind the curtains on the sitting room windows. _So much for peace and quiet,_ Will thought glumly. He reached up and rang the bell.

Nothing happened.

He waited for a full minute, and then rang it a second time.

Still nothing.

Will sighed, and dug through his pockets for the key. He unlocked the door, shuffled inside, dropped his bag, and padded off towards the sitting room. Cautiously, he peered around the doorframe.

Whatever he was expecting, it certainly wasn't this.

Harry was sitting on his sofa, a glass of whiskey in his hand; this in itself was not unusual. What _was_ unusual, though, was that there was a young boy, about eight years old by the looks of him, wearing a dirty rugby uniform, lying fast asleep with his head in Harry's lap.

At the sound of Will's footsteps, Harry raised his weary head, and their eyes met across the room.

"Welcome home, Will," Harry said softly.


	28. Chapter 28

**A/N: Another somewhat sad chapter, I'm afraid. The next one will be much more cheerful, I promise.**

* * *

"Who's this, then?" Will asked. He was still leaning against the doorframe, his voice low and soft, his posture radiating exhaustion. Harry knew how he felt.

"His name is Wes," Harry answered quietly. "His father died today."

The words felt like so much gravel in his mouth, hard and ungainly. One day soon, that truth would sink in; Harry would walk on to the Grid tomorrow, or the next day, or the next, and the numbness he'd felt from the moment that car exploded would vanish, and the weight of all his losses would come crashing down around him, and he honestly didn't know how he would cope. How could he hope to keep his demons at bay, when there were so bloody many of them? He saw Davie King's face in his dreams; Davie laughing, with a terrible hole in his forehead and blood streaming down his cheeks. He saw Ruth, and Will, saw them in grave danger, pleading with him to help, and he saw himself standing by, unmoved, never saving them. It had been weeks, since he'd spent a whole night blissfully asleep, untroubled by horror. He was beginning to think he'd never feel properly rested again.

"Christ," Will sighed. He slouched across the room and flopped into Harry's favorite armchair, scrubbing his face with his hands.

 _What a cheerful little gathering this is,_ Harry thought glumly. Two orphaned boys and Harry, the man responsible for all their pain.

Will had been away for months now, and yet in all that time they had not spoken. Harry had rung him a few times, worried about how the boy was getting on, out there on his own in the wake of their last, deeply troubling conversation. Yet Will never answered, and Harry found he could not blame him. It must have been unbearable for him, to finally know his father's name, the name of the man who'd committed such unspeakable acts. And harder still, to know that Will would never have a chance to face him, that Ruth would never know her attacker had been brought down. Harry had killed Davie King, had held him accountable for his sins, yet he was determined that neither Will nor Ruth would ever know the truth. How could he tell them? The pair of them had come to be the most important people in his life, and he could not bear the thought of their recrimination, should they learn just how low he'd sunk.

"What happened to him?" Will asked.

For a time, Harry did not answer. He looked down at little Wes, sleeping peacefully in his lap, thinking how much he resembled his father. The boy had cried for hours; Harry had driven him home, tried and failed to coax him into eating some supper, and eventually he had just given up, and sat down beside Wes on the sofa. Harry had wrapped his arms around the boy, and let him cry until finally sleep claimed him. They had not moved, despite the protests from Harry's dodgy knee and the rumbling of his stomach. He would sit here all night, if he needed to; it was the least he could do.

"I'll explain later," Harry said eventually. He didn't want to say anything now, didn't want to risk Wes waking up and hearing Will and Harry discussing his father's death. The boy deserved better than that.

"First mum, then Zaf, now this poor kid's dad, too? How do you stand it, Harry?"

Harry wasn't sure whether he wanted to laugh, or to weep. The truth was, Will had only scratched the surface of the losses Harry had suffered during his tenure with MI-5. Of all them good, all of them kind, all of them brave, all of them taken from the world far too soon. And yet Harry remained, and he wasn't entirely sure what to make of that.

"I get up in the morning, and I go to work," Harry answered. Even to his ears his voice sounded like nothing so much as the growl of a tired, wounded animal. "These people that I cared for, these people I respected, they died for the sake of something greater than themselves. It's my job to make sure that those sacrifices were not in vain. It's my job to keep fighting."

It was a speech Harry had given, time and time again. He'd given it to Ruth, and to Malcolm, had spoken those words to parents rendered inconsolable by their loss, had even said them to his wife. People died, the world spun on, and there was never time to grieve.

Beside him, Wes began to stir. "Uncle Harry?" he said in a sleepy little voice.

"It's all right, Wes," Harry said softly, helping the boy sit up a little straighter. Wes struggled to pull himself upright, rubbing his knuckles against his eyes and yawning. He was a sweet little boy, blessed with an angel's face and his father's easy smile. Though Harry didn't expect to see that smile again, not for some time. _Oh, Adam,_ Harry thought. _What will we do without you?_

"Who's he?" Wes asked, leaning against Harry's side, suddenly tense and nervous.

"His name is Will," Harry answered in what he hoped was a reassuring sort of voice. "Do you remember your Auntie Ruth?"

Wes nodded, and Will stared at him, dumbfounded. Of course Will didn't know, couldn't know, the role that Ruth had played in Wes's life. She'd taken a special interest in the boy, after his mother died. It was Ruth who'd arranged for his nanny, Ruth who would volunteer to watch him whenever Adam needed the help, Ruth who always remembered his birthday and bought him little presents at Christmas. The attention she'd always paid to Wes made sense to Harry now in a way that it never had before; he imagined that Ruth, with her gentle heart, looked at Wes and saw her own son as he had been at that age. "Auntie Ruth was Will's mum," Harry explained.

"Oh," Wes said.

From his seat in the armchair Will shifted uncomfortably, and Harry found himself wondering if Will had spent much time around children. This whole situation was terribly awkward, but Wes didn't seem particularly phased; he was staring avidly at Will, taking in his rumpled clothes and his fashionably shaggy hair.

"It's nice to meet you, Wes," Will said politely. Harry wanted to pat him on the back, wanted to thank him for engaging with the boy, and not asking any more questions than were strictly necessary.

"I'm sorry about your mum," Wes told him seriously. "She was nice. My mum's dead, too." His lower lip trembled, but he did not weep. For his part Harry felt the prickle of tears behind his eyelids; how could it be that this child, so young, so vibrant, could speak so bluntly of death? It just seemed…wrong, and so terribly unfair, that Wes should have had to endure such trauma from such an early age, and yet, somehow, he remained resilient.

"I'm sorry, Wes," Will told him in a gentle voice.

* * *

 _Christ almighty, this poor kid,_ Will thought as he watched the little blonde boy yawning across the coffee table from him. _His father dead, and his mother, too._ _Aren't we a pair?_ Will thought. He wondered if he ought to say something, tell the boy that he was an orphan, too, reassure him that he was not alone, that he would be all right. It seemed to Will that it wasn't his place to say such a thing, though; he had no idea what was going to happen to young Wes, now that he was on his own, and he didn't want to bring up the death of the boy's father, to touch on a wound so recently delivered. Perhaps it was easier for Wes to talk about his mum, because she'd been gone for a while. Will knew what that was like; he found that it was easier for him to remember his mum now than it had been in the days immediately following her departure.

"What was your mum's name?" he asked presently. It seemed like the thing to do, to speak to Wes as though he were a grown up, as though they were friends.

It wasn't Wes who answered, but rather Harry. "Her name was Fiona. She was lovely." There was something in his voice, a certain drawn quality to his features that spoke volumes to Will, and as he watched Harry's face, Will realized that Fiona had likely been a spook, too. _Christ, do they all bloody die?_

"That was my mother's name, too, Wes, did you know?" Harry said, turning his head slightly as he spoke to the boy.

"Really?" Wes's eyes shone brightly up at Harry.

"Really." Harry sighed then, and with a great effort, heaved himself off the sofa, and onto his feet. "Come on then, Mr. Carter, time for bed."

"No!" Wes protested, crossing his little arms over his chest defiantly. "I don't want to."

"It's late, Wes." Harry was clearly frustrated, and just as clearly completely at a loss as to how he ought to handle this situation. Will felt bad for him, in a way; Harry had lived alone for a long time, and he was grieving, too. How difficult must this be for him, suddenly finding himself in charge of a little boy?

"Come on, Wes, I'll go up with you," Will said, sliding off his chair and stretching.

* * *

With Will's help, Harry got Wes up the stairs and settled into bed. Wes was clearly rather enamored with Will, and he responded more readily to the young man's suggestions than he did to Harry's orders. For a time Harry sat by the boy's bedside, telling him a story he remembered from his own childhood, about a little boy and a dragon. Wes's eyes had begun to droop the moment his head hit the pillow, and he was fast asleep before Harry ever finished his tale. Without even realizing he'd done it, Harry leaned over the bed and kissed Wes's forehead, and then slipped out of the room on silent feet.

He found Will waiting for him in the kitchen, sitting at the table with his head in his hands.

"Thank you for your help tonight, Will," Harry said as he made his way to the sink, and poured himself a glass of water.

"It's all right, Harry. I don't mind. He's a good kid."

"He is that," Harry said sadly. _A good kid, and all alone, no thanks to me._

The room was deathly quiet, without Wes there to break the silence. So many words echoed between the pair of them, so many questions never asked and never answered.

For years now, Harry had regretted that he hadn't been more of a father to his son. He'd been distant, and Graham had been defiant. The space between them grew, as pride hardened their hearts, and one day Jane had rung him out of the blue, hysterical as she explained that Graham had been arrested. Harry had only seen his son twice, in the last ten years, and each time he had come to the rescue, trying to smooth ruffled feathers in the wake of Graham's latest disaster. His son had turned to drugs, and had on more than one occasion resorted to petty theft to feed his addiction. And it seemed to Harry that when he looked for some answer, some explanation for this inexplicable turn of events, the only person he could think of to blame was himself. He had not been there for his son, and in his absence the boy who had been so bright, so cheerful, so eager to please had grown cold and bitter and angry.

It seemed to him that it would be beyond presumptuous, beyond arrogant for him to consider himself something of a father figure to Will; they'd known each other just over a year, and in that time they had grown to be friends, allies after a fashion, and Harry cared for him deeply, but he knew what it was to have a son of his own. In looking after Wes, looking after Will, Harry found a sort of absolution; he had not been a good father to his son, but he did everything he could for those two lost boys, in the hopes that he would never again fail another child in need of guidance.

Harry understood why Will had not returned his calls, and did not blame him for his silence. Harry was not this young man's father, and Will did not owe him his time. That he had come here tonight warmed Harry's heart, and watching the tender way Will had dealt with Wes had reassured him somewhat, had reminded him why exactly he did the work he did. Harry toiled in darkness and grief, so that others might live in the sun, and find their joy. These two sad boys could help each other, he thought, and he was happy to bear witness to their interactions.

Will did not push for information about what had become of Wes's parents; he just sat quietly and watched Harry with that blue-eyed gaze so like his mother's. _Christ,_ but Harry missed her. Ruth had got on wonderfully with little Wes; they told stories, and played games, and Harry had always smiled as he watched them together, thinking wistfully what a wonderful mother Ruth would have made. And now he knew just how right he had been, and he was grateful that despite his having lost her, he had found her son.

"Your mother would be proud of you," Harry told him gruffly.

"I think she'd be proud of you, too," Will responded.


	29. Chapter 29

**A/N: Apologies for the delay between chapters! I was busy with real life nonsense, and with** _ **November Blue,**_ **my fic for Harry's birthday (special thanks to all those who read and reviewed!). We are inching ever nearer to Ruth's return, I promise, it's just there's a few things that need to happen first.**

* * *

Now that he was back in England, Will established a sort of routine for himself and Harry. In his early days at Oxford Will had called his mother once each week, on Saturday afternoon, to assure her that he was alive and well and attending his lectures as scheduled. After a while it had become a habit, and he rather missed those quiet afternoon chats. These days he had no lectures to worry about, just the great yawning chasm of adulthood stretching out endlessly before him, and while he still made those calls each and every Saturday, it was Harry, and not Ruth, who answered.

Wes's grandparents had come to fetch him from Harry's house the morning after his father's death, but apparently Harry still saw the boy with some regularity, and Will often asked after him. Wes was a sweet kid, and Will felt a certain kinship with him. He remembered all too well what it was like to navigate childhood without a father, and he couldn't imagine how Wes must be feeling, having lost both of his parents at such a tender age. It was nice to know that Harry was looking out for the boy, though, and Harry had even extended an invitation to Will, should he ever wish to join the old man (as Will had begun to fondly refer to Harry) and his young charge on one of their many outings to the dog track. Will had every intention of taking him up on the offer.

The holidays were fast approaching, however, and while Will had grown comfortable with the addition of Harry in his life, he still dearly missed his mum, and never more than when he contemplated the reality of facing another Christmas without her. She had not sent another postcard, and Will hated not knowing where she was, not knowing how she was faring, if she was safe or scared or missing him at all. He knew she must have been, but somewhere deep inside his heart where Will was still a child it hurt him, knowing that she had left without so much as a good-bye. It probably hurt Harry, too, waking up to face each day without her.

They didn't speak about her, Will and Harry, but over the last year and a half, Will had come to realize just how much Harry cared for his mum. The old man showed his regard for her in a thousand quiet ways, not least of all in the gentle way he treated her son. When they had first begun to spend time together, Will had been flummoxed by Harry; how could it be, he'd wondered, that his mother, his vibrant, batty, brilliant mum, could care at all for a man as hard and taciturn as Harry? He knew better now, though, had seen who Harry really was, had come to know the man behind the spook mask, and now he thought he understood.

The year before, Harry had gracefully opened his home to Will for Christmas, and showered him with gifts besides. At the time, Will had been too lost in his own grief over losing his mum (and his anger over the phone call he'd received from his gran, telling him in no uncertain terms that he was not welcome at her annual Christmas party – an event he'd only ever attended once before) that he hadn't even thought to purchase a present for Harry. This year, he decided things would be different, and so two weeks before Christmas, he fished a slightly rumpled business card from the wallet Harry had given him, and made a phone call.

"Malcolm?" he said when the call was answered. "It's Will. Will Evershed. I'm wondering if you could help me with something."

* * *

Harry sat ensconced behind his desk, his fingers steepled together in front of him as he watched his team talking animatedly on the Grid beyond the glass walls of his office. It had been a trying few months for them; losing Adam had shaken them all, though none quite so hard as Ros. Ros, who had only just returned to her home, who had only been given a single brief, shining moment of reunion with Adam before he was ripped away from her forever. How must she have felt? he wondered. Many nights Harry fell asleep, only to dream of Ruth coming back to him, sailing back into his life in much the same way as she had left it. Only those dreams were tainted now by the knowledge of how Adam and Ros's story had ended, and every time he dreamed of her now he would watch draw ever nearer to him, and at the very moment when he thought he could reach out and touch her, a vast explosion ripped through the air between them. When the dust settled Ruth was gone, and Davie King stood in her place, laughing, his face gruesome and bloody. Harry didn't sleep much, these days.

In addition to Ros, Lucas North had also made his way back to the Grid. His return was in many ways bittersweet for Harry. For eight long years Harry had tried without success to bring his agent home, and now that he finally had, he found a man quite different from the one who had left him all those years before. Lucas was cold and isolated, where before he had been full of smiles and easy jokes. With his lips he pledged his fealty to Harry and to the realm, but it was still early days, and Harry was not certain what Lucas's hands were doing behind his back.

It pained him, to think that after everything Lucas had sacrificed for his country, Harry could not bring himself to fully trust the man. It had happened before, agents held by foreign powers turned rogue through bribery and torture. Could he really blame Lucas, if the man had indeed returned to him with ulterior motives, after everything he had endured? His wife was remarried, with children of her own, unwilling and unable to take him back. He had no other family, so many of his friends had died, and while he had languished in filth and horror his country had moved on, and forgotten him. There was no financial bonus coming his way, no consideration given in exchange, save for the sincere thanks of one tired old man. The Russians had asked Lucas to spy for them, in exchange for his freedom, of that Harry was certain; what remained to be seen was whether Lucas had taken them up on their offer.

Jo was back at work as well; there was still a haunted look in her sweet doe's eyes, but she bent to each task with a will, and as Harry watched, Ben Kaplan said something to her that very nearly made her smile again. She was nothing if not resilient; she would follow the path laid down by all those who had come before her, those brave souls who had borne unspeakable pain and continued to fight on, shattered inside but still standing. Harry knew something about that himself; he carried more than his fair share of scars, more than his fair share of bitter memories.

And then there was Connie. Connie, the last bastion of the old guard, a weary soldier called upon to once more serve her country, despite the scorn and derision that had been showered upon her the first time around. Connie, with her acerbic wit and her sharp tongue, always ready with the perfect retort, always seeing through the façade of bravado Harry had erected for himself, needling him, reminding him that he was only human, and he knew it. While Harry was thankful for her skills and even, occasionally, thankful for the companionship of someone who understood him so well, there were moments when she looked at him, and he saw something calculating and not altogether friendly in her gaze. If anyone was capable of treachery, it would be Connie, but they had come this far together, and she remained true. Whatever bitter, shrewd thoughts overcame her in those moments she kept them to herself, and left Harry alone to his fears and his doubts.

Still, it was very nearly Christmas, and he was trying to find some festive spirit, somewhere in his heart. Will had rung him only the day before, and asked if they could spend the day together again, and Harry had responded gruffly in the affirmative, trying to disguise the fact that he was grinning fit to burst. Wes's grandparents had agreed to bring him by for an hour or two, as well; apparently the boy had been begging for weeks, and his exhausted grandparents acquiesced out of a desire for peace, more than anything else. Even Catherine had mentioned stopping by to say hello on the day. All in all, it was shaping up to be one of his better Christmas, but still, Harry found that something was missing.

 _Someone_ was missing.

There had been no news of her, though Harry knew that in this situation, no news was preferable to the alternative. He thought of her often, wondered how she was getting on, where she was, if she had settled down or if she were still running like mad. She was an adaptable woman, was Ruth; she had a remarkable ability for survival, despite her tender heart. When she first stumbled onto the Grid Harry had harbored doubts about how long she would hold up, in the rough and tumble world of espionage. She was excitable, and her every emotion showed on her face; back then, the slightest hint of displeasure from him had sent her scurrying from the room. Once she'd found her feet, though, she'd shown him the steel beneath her blushes. He remembered all too well the performance she gave, during her one and only disciplinary hearing. She'd been passionate and self-assured, and had not hesitated to tell him exactly what she thought about him, and his assertion that she needed to wall off her heart. In that room she had stood toe-to-toe with him, and she had been bloody magnificent.

It was strange, to his mind, that after nearly a year and a half without her, he still thought about her most every day. Perhaps he ought to have moved on, gone out and found himself another woman, one who would not hesitate to share his bed, if not his confidences. Technically, it wasn't as if Ruth had ever really been anything more than a member of his team, and while he valued each of them, deep inside his heart where he feared to tread he knew they were all replaceable. It had happened time and time again; he had drawn near to one of his best and brightest, and he had lost them, and he had mourned, and another had risen up to take their place, and slowly Harry had left the past behind him. Ruth had very nearly been something more, though, had very nearly been everything, and perhaps it was that _almost was_ that kept him turning back to her. Then again perhaps it was the way she'd finished his thoughts, the way she brushed her hand against his arm, the way with only a look she had brought him back from the brink of ruin that he missed so very much. Perhaps it was the thought of the hundreds of times he had stood beside her on the roof, close enough to pull her into his arms and kiss her if he dared, that left him tossing and turning at night, wondering where she was and if she thought of him at all.

Or if, perhaps, she had found someone else.

Could he blame her, really, if she had? She was young and lovely, with a heart full to bursting with love she longed to share, and she would never, could never, return home. Whatever they might have been together was dead and gone, and if she found peace, or solace, or simple reckless joy in the arms of another, could he fault her for it? His head said _no, she deserves the chance to love and be loved,_ but his heart said _yes, she is yours and yours alone._

For he did feel as if the pull that existed between them, the quiet, gentle force of her sheer radiance that kept him orbiting around her as the earth revolved around the sun, meant that in someone they were meant for one another, even if he could not find his way back to her. Harry had always been fond of Shakespeare, and whenever he thought of Ruth, the phrase _star-crossed_ came to mind; lovers, bound together, torn apart by cruel fate, destined never to be together. And surely if they were star-crossed, then she was bound to him as he was to her, and surely she ought to wait, as he did, for a day of reunion that might never come. These thoughts he kept well hidden deep inside himself, where all his romantic tendencies lived in isolation from the reality of his life. And he never gave them voice, and only rarely considered them himself, so ashamed was he that he would circumscribe her to a life of loneliness and misery, simply because that was the path he had chosen for himself.

And so it was that Harry remembered, and lamented, and Christmas drew ever nearer, with Ruth no closer to him.

* * *

Christmas day dawned bright and cold, and Will made his way over to Harry's house as early as he could manage – which meant that he arrived around eleven in the morning, with a case of beer under one arm and a present for Wes tucked under the other. With Malcolm's help he had arranged a gift for Harry, but it was not the sort of present which could be wrapped up in paper and string, and it would at any rate be arriving somewhat later in the day.

As he stood on Harry's doorstep, Will reached out and kicked the door twice with his boot, announcing his arrival; he would have used his key to let himself in, but his hands were full, and he didn't want to put down his burdens on the porch, as a fresh fine dusting of snow covered everything in sight.

He could hear Scarlet scrambling towards the door, and behind her, the heavy footfalls of the old man himself, and he smiled. It was nice, this having somewhere to be on Christmas; his mum had always gone overboard at Christmas, stringing up a million lights and loading down the tree with so many ornaments he always feared it might topple over. And she always bought him entirely too many gifts, more than he could afford; he knew it was her way of making up for the fact that they would spend the day alone, as always, without the cheerful bustle of family to distract them. She always cooked a ham, singing Christmas carols as loud as she could manage all the while, her bright, clear voice echoing through their home. If Will couldn't have his mum at Christmas, he felt that Harry was the next best thing; there might not be much singing, but they would celebrate in their own quiet way, toasting to his mum, wherever she might be, and making new memories for themselves.

"Happy Christmas, Harry," Will said when the old man finally opened the door.

"Happy Christmas, Will," Harry answered, smiling.


	30. Chapter 30

Despite some indications to the contrary, Harry Pearce was a firm believer in rituals. He believed in the meaning behind the deed, in recognizing and honoring solemn occasions, in taking a moment to stop and mark important dates. He believed that some ground was sacred, that some words were worth more than others, and that some experiences were meant to be shared. He was not a particularly religious man; his father had taken him to church regularly throughout his youth, but once he was free to make his own way in the world, Harry did not return. He might have, when he was older, more settled, with children of his own, but by the time Catherine and Graham were born he had seen too much, done too much. If there was a God, he wasn't listening. If there was a heaven, Harry Pearce was certain he would find no welcome there.

So it was that despite his lack of piety, Harry was quite fond of Christmas. As an opportunity to reflect, to spend time with loved ones, to celebrate joy and peace and hope, he carried a great deal of respect for it. When his children were small, he and Jane had gone all out; church services and carols and food enough to feed an army, and more presents than either of the little ones ever knew what to do with. They had celebrated only a paltry few Christmases, between Catherine's birth and the end of their marriage, but on that day each year they set aside their differences, for the sake of the children, and embraced their love for one another, however briefly. After the divorce, though, Harry had not spent a single Christmas with his family. For a man who believed so strongly in the importance of marking that particular occasion, being away from these he loved on that day in particular had been nearly impossible to bear, and what had once been his favorite day of the entire year became a gauntlet of pain and loneliness.

Until now. The previous year, he had celebrated with Will, and though they had both been a bit lonely, both been a bit lost, that night had been one of the happiest Harry had enjoyed in recent memory. And though his pride decreed that he would not speak the words allowed, he was more pleased than he could say that Will had chosen to spend this Christmas with him, as well. They were making their own traditions, forging their own bonds, and Harry loved every moment of it.

He took comfort in the familiarity of it, in the picture of Will, sat on the sofa with his feet up on the coffee table and a beer in hand. In an almost gleeful display of youth and general slobbishness Will never took his beer from a glass, but always sipped it straight from the bottle, grinning at Harry all the while as if to say _I dare you to correct me._ And Harry would grumble and raise a single, accusatory eyebrow, but he never spoke the words aloud, because to tell the truth, he treasured this secret in his heart, this thing he knew about Will now, one of a hundred things he had learned over the course of their acquaintance.

The pair of them had only just settled down in the sitting room, Harry folding himself comfortably into his armchair with a sigh, when the doorbell rang.

Harry looked at Will.

Will grinned at Harry.

"I'll get it, mate, you stay put," Will told him as the young man vaulted to his feet.

 _What's this, then?_ Harry wondered. He was expecting Wes sometime after lunch, and Catherine sometime after that; it was far too early for either of them, and Harry was not expecting any other visitors.

From the entryway he heard the excited scrabbling of Scarlet's paws against the hardwood, and then the sound of the door opening. Voices drifted back to him, too faint for him to hear or discern their meaning. From his vantage point in the sitting room, he could not see the door, and he could not identify the newest arrival. It irked him, sitting there like that, not knowing what was happening. As much as he enjoyed orchestrating surprises for those he cared for, he had never had much patience for standing on the receiving end of such machinations. He had been too long a spook to feel entirely comfortable in relinquishing his control, however banal the situation.

Eventually, though, the voices drew nearer, and his questions were answered.

There in the doorway to the sitting room, wearing a suit and his trademark lopsided smile, stood Malcolm.

"Merry Christmas, Harry," Malcolm said, shuffling his feet a bit awkwardly. "I know you weren't expecting me, I'm sorry to intrude-"

"Nonsense," Harry interrupted, rising ponderously to his feet. "You're always welcome here, Malcolm. Merry Christmas." This last he delivered with a smile, reaching out to shake his old friend's hand as they stood together there in the doorway, Will grinning like a loon just behind Malcolm's shoulder.

"Come have a seat," Harry said, but just as Malcolm began to make his way towards the sofa, the doorbell rang again.

Harry raised an eyebrow at Will.

Will stuck his tongue out at Harry.

Once again Will raced off to answer the door, Scarlet hot on his heels and beside herself with glee. Harry leaned against the wall, shaking his head at the pair of them. _What's he gone and done now?_ Harry wondered.

The answer to his question became patently obvious when Will flung open the door to reveal Connie and Ros, wearing matching scowls.

"You must be the mysterious Will, then," Connie said.

"The very same," Will said, taking a step back to shepherd the pair of them into the house. The ladies removed their coats and passed their burdens – a bottle of Glenlivet from Connie and what appeared to be some sort of store-bought cake from Ros – off to Will, who cheerfully directed them toward the sitting room before rushing off to the kitchen.

"Harry," Ros said dryly as she stalked towards the sofa.

"Not that I'm not pleased to see you," Harry began, but Connie cut him off, plopping down in his armchair with a sigh.

"It was your nephew's idea," she explained. There was just the faintest hint of a smile playing out around the corners of her eyes. Harry exchanged a brief, somewhat baffled glance with Malcolm; _my nephew?_ "Will seemed to think that you needed some company, at Christmas."

"Ah," Harry said, and as he watched a slightly guilty look crept across Malcolm's face, and somewhere in Harry's mind, it all clicked into place. _Cheeky sod._

"I wasn't aware you had a nephew," Connie continued, still smiling just a little, as if she'd just uncovered some unbelievably juicy secret.

Before Harry could answer, the doorbell rang again, and Will went thundering through the foyer. _Saints preserve us,_ Harry thought. _Who else has he called?_

Jo and Ben Kaplan, as it turned out, the pair of them red-cheeked from the cold and wearing bright Christmas jumpers. They'd brought food, as well, which was all for the good, considering Harry had only planned to feed himself and Will for lunch. As the newcomers settled in and a fresh round of _Merry Christmases_ started up and Ros rolled her eyes, Harry trundled himself off to the kitchen to have a quiet word with the lad. If Will was to be his nephew, they'd need to get their stories straight first.

He found the young man in question halfway through pouring a round of Scotch; Will had apparently been distracted by Scarlet's wild pleas for attention, and he was currently stooped over, scratching her enthusiastically behind the ears while she wagged her tail in rapturous appreciation.

"My nephew, eh?" Harry asked quietly.

Will straightened up at once, blushing furiously and reminding Harry so forcefully of Ruth that he had to bite his tongue to keep from pointing out their resemblance.

"I hope you don't mind," Will said, looking rather contrite. "I know mum hadn't told anyone about me, and I don't know about you, but I certainly don't feel like explaining it to everyone who walks in the door. You pretended to be my uncle at Oxford, so I just thought…"

"It's quite all right, Will," Harry told him. And it was, really. Once he'd gotten over the initial shock, he found he quite liked the idea of spending Christmas with this motley crew, of sharing a meal and a few laughs without the fate of the world hanging in the balance. "I can be your uncle for a day."

"Oh, good," Will said, smiling happily. It wasn't very often that Harry managed to make people happy, and he was quite enjoying it today. "So what's our story then, mate?"

Harry ran a hand over his face. "Keep it simple; the fewer details, the better. Then we won't contradict one another later on." It wouldn't be easy, keeping the truth from the assembled team of spooks in the adjoining room, especially given Will's generally rather forthright, genial nature.

"Have you got any siblings?" Will asked.

Harry smiled sadly. "I had a brother, called Ben. He died a very long time ago." That never got any easier, speaking those particular words aloud. Ben had been bright and kind and cheerful, easy going and well-loved, everything his brother wasn't, and his loss still hurt, all these many years later. "Connie knows he died, but she doesn't know when."

Will nodded. "If they ask, we'll tell them he died when I was a baby?" Harry nodded, his throat too tight to speak. The best lies have a grain of truth to them; Will had grown up without a father, and he should have no trouble with that particular detail. He had no idea, though, that it had only been a few months since his own father's passing, that Harry's hands had wielded the gun that took his father's life, and this conversation brought that bitter truth back to the forefront of Harry's mind, and with it came the all-too familiar rush of guilt.

Over the next few minutes they worked out the details of their legend in quiet whispers, and finished pouring the drinks. Harry rummaged around in the cupboards until he produced an old burnished silver serving tray, and they set the glasses upon it before making their way back to the assembly in the sitting room.

The team were in rare form when they returned; Scarlet had followed the voices and, much to everyone's delight, promptly curled up in Malcolm's lap, setting off a flurry of sneezes from the poor fellow while Jo tried valiantly not to laugh. Quarters were a bit tight; it had been quite some time since Harry had entertained anyone at all, let alone six people at once, but they made do. To the accompaniment of Malcolm's sneezes Connie was regaling the younger spooks with a tale from her and Harry's glory days in Northern Ireland.

"And then, if you can believe it," she continued, laughing as Harry had not seen her do for many years, "in comes Harry, naked as the day he was born, back straight like any good soldier, with a bottle of whiskey in one hand and a hammer in the other. And he stopped in the doorway, and he looked at me and he said…" she paused for effect, catching Harry's eye and grinning. He couldn't help it, he smiled back – albeit a bit ruefully – and finished the story with her as she said, " _Looking's free, love, but touching will cost you extra."_

Jo began to laugh uncontrollably, burying her face in Ben's shoulder, Malcolm blushed scarlet, and even Ros let forth a gleeful little snort.

"Those were the days, eh, love?" Connie said as Harry began passing out the drinks.

* * *

Their lunch went rather better than Harry was expecting, in the end. Jo and Ben and Will all got on famously, the two spooks being not that much older than the boy, and Harry quite enjoyed the chance to sit and reminisce with Connie and Malcolm. They had been through so much, the three of them, and times like this when they could put their heads together and recall the all too brief moments of happiness they had shared over the last thirty years were in short supply. There was food, and plenty of it, and the little house rang with laughter.

Wes arrived around one in the afternoon; Harry offered Fiona's parents a drink, should they wish to stay, but they shook their heads sadly, and her father explained in a quiet voice that they were taking advantage of this rare moment of peace to go and visit Fiona and Adam's graves. Harry shook his hand, feeling the weight of guilt settling in his stomach once more as he showed them out. Even here, even now, in the midst of this beautiful, glorious day, the specter of death and pain hung ever in the shadows.

Losing his father had changed Wes in many ways; he had once been a rather rambunctious, trouble-making sort of boy, but now he seemed more withdrawn. On their usual outings to the dog park Harry had tried with little success to coax a smile from the boy. It would take time, he knew, for those hurts to begin to heal, but Harry could never come to terms with seeing a child in pain.

Will was a godsend, when it came to Wes. Harry watched, bemused, as Will slipped from the room, appearing moments later with a battered old rugby ball. The sight of it brought Harry up short; it had belonged to Graham, when he was little. Harry had entertained dreams of playing in the garden with his son, dreams that had never come to fruition after Jane kicked him out of the house, after his own coldness, his own failings had broken their family asunder. The ball had languished, unused, in some dark corner of his box room for years, but Will had apparently found it and re-inflated it. The sight of Will bending over to speak to Wes, holding out the ball, the sight of the tremulous smile that stretched across Wes's face as Will spoke, the sight of the pair of them running out the kitchen door, giggling, very nearly brought tears to Harry's eyes.

"He's very much like his mother, isn't he?" Malcolm asked. Harry nearly jumped out of his skin; he hadn't heard his old friend approach.

"He is that," Harry replied, his thick with an emotion he could not name. Will _was_ rather a lot like his mum, kind and gentle, with a tender heart for those in need. Ruth had sought Wes out, had befriended him, had looked after him, and now her son was doing the same.

Malcolm said no more; he had no need of words. Instead he reached out, and gave Harry's shoulder a gentle squeeze.

* * *

Ros made her excuses and departed shortly after Wes's arrival; Harry couldn't blame her for that, in the end. How difficult must it be for her, he wondered, looking at Wes and seeing Adam, a man she had cared for, maybe even loved, taken from her forever? Perhaps Harry could have shared the truth of Will with her, explained that he knew something about that, tell her that sometimes he could barely stand the pain of seeing Ruth's eyes every time he looked at her son. But Ruth was still alive, and he and Ros had never gone in for _sharing_ , so he simply bid her Merry Christmas, and showed her to the door.

"Harry! Come and have a drink, Harry!" Jo called from the living room, but before he could, the final party guest arrived.

Catherine was not even a little bit confused, to find so many people in her father's house upon her arrival.

"So everyone made it, then?" she asked as she surveyed the ruins of their lunch and Wes and Will trooping in from the kitchen, dripping mud and grinning from ear to ear.

"Did you know about this?" Harry asked, flabbergasted. How had Will managed this? He wondered. To arrange for all of them to come, even Ros, to reach out to Catherine and warn her of his plans, seemed like quite a task for one young man, especially since Harry had not spoken of any of them to Will. Likely he had had some help, in orchestrating this little party. Malcolm had looked a bit guilty, when Jo and Ben arrived; perhaps he had helped the boy. Harry made a mental note to thank him later.

"Your nephew rang me," she said with a little grin. The emphasis she put on the word _nephew_ told Harry everything he needed to know. _That boy would make a decent spy, if he chose to pursue it,_ Harry thought ruefully. Will had covered all his bases, and charmed the lot of them. And Harry was grateful for it.

"Come in and have a drink," Harry said.

His daughter reached out and took his arm, offering him a winsome smile as she allowed him to lead her into the sitting room, where everyone was laughing.

As far as Christmases went, Harry could not recall a better one.


	31. Chapter 31

**A/N: Firstly, I would like to offer my sincerest thanks to all of you for sticking with me for so long! I know you're anxious for Ruth's return, and we're getting quite close. Secondly, I wanted to let you know that there will likely be more time between updates moving forward; I pretty much exclusively write while sitting outside, but I absolutely abhor cold weather. With winter on its way, I will likely find it harder to churn out chapters at my usual pace. It's cold and dark, and my muse dearly misses the sun.**

* * *

Spending Christmas with Harry and his team (and his daughter) was a rather illuminating experience for Will. He had spoken with each of them on the phone in advance – though he never did learn any of their surnames – and he had been surprised at the eagerness with which they agreed. He wondered how it was that none of them had families to spend the holiday with. Family life and spying didn't go together, he supposed. Only one person he had contacted, a mysterious man called Lucas, had declined, and he offered no explanation, though from the tone of his voice Will had determined that whatever his reasons for staying away, they were likely not as warm and fuzzy as a desire for a pleasant family Christmas.

Jo and Ben had been both cheerful and friendly, though Jo had looked at him oddly when they first met. Her gaze had lingered on his face, and he wondered if she could see, as Harry could, just how very much he resembled his mother. The odd look had passed, however, and she had not mentioned anything; perhaps she had come to the conclusion that it was a coincidence, and nothing more. After all, he was willing to bet his mother had never given the girl any reason to believe that her life was not as empty as the rest of theirs seemed to be.

Connie, too, had looked at him askance, but he had spoken about her with Harry, after the party dispersed, and Harry assured him that as far as he was aware, Connie had never once met Ruth. Having had perhaps a bit more Scotch than was really wise, Harry confessed that he was almost certain that Connie believed Will to be his son, rather than his nephew, a bastard child he'd fathered on some nameless woman, and only recently taken responsibility for. Will had laughed about that at the time, but on Christmas night, as he lay awake in the spare room of Harry's house, staring at the now-familiar ceiling, an awful, terrible sort of disappointment had settled in his stomach. There was a part of him, however small, that wished Harry had been his father. A small, childish part of him wished he had grown up in this house, that he had been able to watch Harry and Ruth interact, that he had been able to know "Uncle Malcolm" as Catherine had. He loved his mum, loved her dearly, and he was forever grateful for all the sacrifices she'd made to bring him up on her own. It just wasn't _fair,_ that they'd been alone for so long, that _she_ had been alone for so long, when Harry had warmth and affection to spare. The bitterness of his regret unsettled him, and he found he could not sleep for wishing things had been different.

Christmas passed, and life moved on, and still Will found his thoughts turning often to his mother. The older he got, the more he wondered how she'd ever managed at all. He would be twenty-three this summer; when Ruth was twenty-three, she was fresh out of uni and working for GCHQ, and helping an eight year old Will with his maths. They moved to a tiny, two-bedroom flat in Cheltenham, but to Will's young eyes, the flat was a palace compared to the flats they'd rented in Oxford. They had plenty to eat, and though they never had enough money for his mother to buy herself a new pair of shoes, he never wanted for anything. He made friends in his new school, and his mother worked, as always, and never had any visitors. At the time Will hadn't spared a thought for how lonely she must have been; he thought everyone was alone, when they were older, that once a person reached a certain age they grew too old for friends. He knew better now, though, and he couldn't help but wonder how miserable she must have been, with no one to confide in, no one to lean on. No one, except his Uncle Peter, whose work on the Royal Protection Detail kept him busy in London.

Day by day, Will worked in the bookshop, and thought about his mum, and wondered what he was going to do next. He'd finished uni, he'd traveled, and now it seemed that it was time for him to choose a proper career, to make something of himself, for his mother's sake. But what would he choose? When he spoke to Harry on Saturday afternoons, their conversations often revolved around that uncertainty, and though Harry never pushed him in one direction or the other, just having someone to speak to about his fears, and his hopes, someone almost (but not quite) like a father, gave him more comfort than he could say.

* * *

Christmas passed, and so did the New Year. Harry marked that occasion as he often did, standing alone on the roof of Thames House. In previous years a small, pretty brunette had stood beside him at the balustrade, despite the cold, and he found he missed her more than words could say.

 _Where are you, my Ruth?_ He wondered, staring up at the blackness of the sky, unable to see the stars for the lights of London twinkling far below. Was she happy? Was she well? Was she standing on some roof somewhere, in some quiet little village, staring up at those stars he could not see, and thinking of him? Was she miserable, cold and alone holed up in some dingy bedsit, wishing she were anywhere else?

Spending Christmas with Will and his team had been restorative in many ways; it had reminded him what it was like to feel joy, and had allowed him to, for the first time in a very long time, enjoy a whole blissful night's sleep, uninterrupted by dreams. As the days passed, though, the darkness returned. Which member of his team would he lose next? He wondered. Would it be Lucas, quiet, broken Lucas whose true allegiances could not be determined? Would it be Ros, prickly, obstinate Ros, who stood beside him and passed no judgment as he shot the man responsible for Adam Carter's death in cold blood? Sweet Jo, or cocky Ben, or shrewd Connie? Or Malcolm, his oldest friend, his only friend, really? Such thoughts were dark and bitter, and they haunted his every step. The tally of those who had gone before him had grown so long that somewhere, deep in his heart, Harry wondered if perhaps his own name would be next on the roll. If perhaps, finally, it would be his turn.

Speaking to Will helped him greatly, as he stumbled through those dark winter days. Will, who was so young and full of promise, weighing his options and trying to determine how best to move forward in the world. For a young man as bright as Will, there were a million possibilities, and Harry relished his role as a confidant, as Will struggled to determine which path he ought to take. Should he be a banker, a teacher, a barrister? Should he stay on at the bookshop for another year, or should he go back to uni and pursue another degree? Harry was quite thankful that never once, during those many chats, had Will ever raised the possibility of his coming to work with Five. Ruth would have flown into a rage, he was sure, if he ever let her son anywhere near Thames House, and Will, in his wisdom, seemed to recognize that. Or perhaps he had taken stock of just how many people Harry had lost, during their brief acquaintance, and decided it wasn't worth the risk.

Catherine helped him, too; he had worried, at first, how she might respond upon watching him interact with Will. He knew he had been gentler, more understanding with Will than he had been with either of his own children in the past, and he was concerned that perhaps his daughter might be, if not jealous, then hurt at the very least, that he should show such consideration to a boy who had no blood connection to him. If she had been, she didn't show it; she was friendly with Will, even hugging him good-bye when she left, and dragging a promise out of him that they would see one another again soon, "without the old man breathing down our necks." Harry wasn't sure what she was plotting, but he was thankful for her kindness towards Will, all the same, and thankful too that after Christmas she rang more and more often, just to chat.

* * *

Time never slows, for grief or for joy, and before Harry realized it, the end of April was upon him. On one fine Saturday Will took the train in from Oxford, to join Harry and Wes on a jaunt to the dog track. Harry bought beers for himself and Will, and one small soda and one very large pretzel for Wes, and the three of them settled down in their seats to watch the trials.

Wes had grown quite fond of the dogs, and he had a keen eye. As soon as the first trial began he sat forward with his little arms crossed over the back of the empty seat in front of him, his eyes glued avidly on the track. So immersed was he that he did not move, or indeed give any indication that he was listening when Will leaned over him, and said to Harry in a quiet voice, "You know what day it is, don't you mate?"

Harry sighed. He knew all too well what day it was; in fact, it was one quick glance at the calendar that had convinced him to ring Will, and invite him for the day.

"It's your mother's birthday," Harry said softly.

Will nodded. "It's the second one, since she's been gone."

It seemed important to the boy, somehow, and Harry wondered if he'd done the right thing, inviting him up on this particular day. In truth, Harry hadn't wanted to mark the occasion alone. The last few months had been trying, to say the least; Ros was more closed off and combative than ever, and Lucas was growing increasingly unpredictable. Rumblings about Sugarhorse, one of the longest-running Five operations in Russia, had reached Harry's ears, and the demons he had for so long struggled to keep at bay seemed to be drawing ever nearer to him. He wanted this day, this one blessed day, to spend with Will and Wes, to quietly celebrate Ruth, to quietly hope that better days were coming.

In response to Will, Harry said only, "I know."

"Lucky Lady looks good, Uncle Harry," Wes piped up from between them, startling them both. Will leaned forward in his seat, and spoke to Wes when he answered.

"Well, then, I say we put twenty quid on the Lucky Lady. What do you think, Wes?"

Wes nodded emphatically, and Harry smiled as he passed over the money to Will, who went off to place the bet. Left alone with Wes now, Harry continue to smile, and reached out to ruffle the boy's hair fondly.

"Uncle Harry?" Wes asked, leaning back in his chair and taking a huge bite out of his pretzel.

Harry hummed in response; he had spent enough time around children to recognize that tone. Whatever Wes was about to ask him was likely to be one of those trademark, little boy non sequitors, like the time when Graham, only three years old and covered in soap bubbles, had called a halt to bath time proceedings in order to ask where babies came from.

"Did you love Auntie Ruth?"

Harry had been midway through a swig of beer, and at the boy's question, he promptly choked on it.

" _What_?" he asked, when he had managed to start breathing again.

"She used to come with us, and you always smiled at her. You were sad when she died, like my dad was when mummy died. And Will's with you all the time now." Wes said this all very matter-of-factly, staring up at Harry, his bright eyes sad and shining in the weak spring sun.

"I cared for your Auntie Ruth, very much," Harry said slowly. How else could he explain it? How could he possibly condense their story, their pain and their loss and their _something wonderful that was never said_ into a conversation appropriate for a child Wes's age, a child who had already suffered so much?

"My dad said people are like swans," Wes continued. "They find one swan they love, and they float around together for the rest of their lives. But he didn't tell me what happens, when one of the swans dies. Do they find a new swan? Or do they just stay alone and sad forever?"

 _Christ almighty,_ Harry thought, running his hand over his face as he struggled to come up with some sort of response, something that would sound reassuring, and not mirror the bleakness in his own heart.

"I think it depends on the swan," he said finally. "Sometimes they find another swan, who's lost someone, too, and they can help one another. But sometimes, when a swan is very old and set in his ways, he prefers to be alone." _Swans. What the hell do I know about bloody swans?_ Harry wondered. _Bloody Adam. It should be you, talking to your son, helping him work through this grief. What do I know about comforting little boys?_

"I don't think you're too old, Uncle Harry," Wes said earnestly. Harry wondered at that, at just how insightful the lad could be, when he set his mind to it.

"Well, that's very kind of you to say, Wesley," Harry answered. He felt too old, felt too far gone down this particular path in life. He had found his swan, a beautiful woman, full of grace and life, a woman who had understood him, and cared for him anyway, a woman strong enough to stand beside him, to share his burdens, and he had lost her. How could he find another, how could he even think of looking, when he had known, however briefly, the warmth of her kiss and the fire of her touch? There was no other swan for him, and he knew it. Wherever she was, she carried his heart with her.

"All right boys, that's that. Let's see how lucky our lady is," Will said as he plopped back down in his seat. Will's arrival distracted Wes from talk of swans, and they began enthusiastically hypothesizing about the upcoming race. Harry leaned back in his chair, thinking about swans and the inquisitive nature of little boys. How many times had Will surprised Ruth with a question like that? Harry wondered. How had she managed, young and alone, to teach him, to comfort him, to raise him, with no help, no guidance, and no one to lean on? For the thousandth time, Harry wondered where she was, and how different things might have been, if only they'd had just a little more time.


	32. Chapter 32

**A/N: I want to start by offering my sincerest thanks to those of you who have reached out to me, both here on FFN and on tumblr, to offer your support following our disastrous presidential election on Tuesday. I am still stunned, and disappointed, and deeply worried about the future of my country. All over the world people are suffering the oppression of hate, under many different guises, and in moments like this it can be difficult to find even a small piece of hope. It is my belief that we will find that hope in each other, in the communities we build, in all their many forms. I am thankful for this community, and so I have lifted myself up off the floor, and written this next chapter. The world spins madly on.**

* * *

 _30 April 2005_

Ruth stumbled into her house, weary and drained. She'd been exhausted for a month, ever since the beginning of Zoe's trial. Sometimes she still couldn't believe it, couldn't believe that Zoe was gone, never to be seen or heard from ever again, sacrificed as a scapegoat in the name of protecting the service. Harry had fought tooth and nail for her freedom, and Harry had lost. In the end there had been nothing for it but to arrange a false identity for her and spirit her away in the middle of the night. In the weeks following her departure, Danny had grown despondent, lashing out at anyone who stepped too close, and Harry had been more taciturn than ever, hiding himself away in his office, leaving Ruth and Adam to pretend as if everything were normal, as if they were all going to be all right.

And then yesterday, Harry had gone and hidden a birthday present for her in her desk. She was certain it was Harry, though the gift had not come with a card; she'd felt his eyes upon her, when she discovered it, and when she met his gaze he'd smiled, and the look in his eyes had been enough to confirm the origin of the gift. She'd smiled back, unable to stop the blush that colored her cheeks when she realized what he'd done. An album inspired by _The Red Shoes_ and a little book about cats; they weren't exactly things she would have chosen for herself, but they spoke to a certain sense of understanding between the pair of them, spoke to just how well Harry knew her. And so too had the placement of the gift; he had not made a big show of it, or indeed mentioned her birthday to anyone at all, knowing how very much she valued her privacy. Instead he'd hidden them in a box inside her desk, a little secret for just the two of them to share.

 _Sometimes I think we're made of secrets,_ she thought as she toed off her shoes. Harry had been a spy for so long; he probably knew more secrets than most people could ever comprehend. And Ruth had her secrets too; she kept Will, and the terrible truth of his conception, hidden away deep inside her heart. Danny knew about Will, but Danny was so lost inside his own misery he did not spare a moment to think of her, or of this secret that they shared.

What would Harry do, if he ever learned the truth?

She'd found herself asking that question more and more, as she and Harry danced ever nearer to one another. Would he be like Sean, the only man Ruth had dated during her entire tenure at Oxford, a man who upon learning that she had a small child at home had very nearly run out of the restaurant, and never called her again? Would he be like Peter, trying to insinuate himself into Will's life, pushing to be a father to the boy, and running roughshod over her feelings in the process? Or would he, upon learning the lengths she'd gone to in order to keep Will a secret, throw her to the wolves for daring to lie to him?

It was impossible to know, really, until the thing was done, and Ruth valued her career, and her closeness with Harry, far too much to risk losing them both in one fell swoop. So she would keep her peace, and keep her heart locked away, as she had done now for many, many years.

Ruth made her way into the kitchen, thinking vaguely of foregoing dinner in favor of a glass of wine before falling to bed at the first possible opportunity. She needed rest, needed time away from work, away from Harry, away from everything. Before she could, though, she spotted the little red light blinking on her telephone; someone had left her a message.

 _That's odd,_ she thought as she made her way over to it. Will only ever called her mobile, and likewise no one from work ever rang her on her landline. Her mother never rang, any more; who else could it possibly be?

She pressed the button, and the message began to play, and her heart sank in her chest.

"Ruth," Peter's voice came out of the machine, scratchy and rough and trembling. _He's drunk, again,_ she thought glumly. Peter was always drunk, these days. He'd lost his job with the Royal Protection Unit eight years before, after he showed up to work pissed one too many times, and only a few weeks later Princess Diana was killed in that terrible crash. Things had never been right for him, after that; he'd been unable to hold down a steady job, he'd fallen out with Angela, and through it all he drank, and drank, and drank.

"I'm sorry I missed your birthday, love," he said. She hated that, hated hearing him call her _love;_ they'd had a terrible row the year before, and hardly spoken since. What did he expect, though, when he showed up at her door in the middle of the night, stinking of whiskey and pawing at her as if he were her lover, and not her stepbrother? She'd told him then not to contact her again until he cleaned himself up. It would be appear that, as always, he was ignoring her wishes.

"I'm sorry for everything," he continued, his voice cracking a little as he spoke. She listened to the sound of him sniveling on the other end of the line and sighed; she was too bloody tired to muster up the energy to feel sorry for him just now.

The crying continued for almost a full minute, before he found his voice again. "I love you, Ruth," he said. "I always have done." And then the message ended. There was something eerily final about his words, but Ruth shook off the sense of impending doom threatening to take root in her heart. It was just Peter being Peter, melodramatic as always. He would sober up in the morning, and not remember a word of it.

Ruth erased the message, and poured herself a glass of wine, thinking of Peter. He had been such a gentle boy; he had a tender heart, and life had not treated him kindly. He'd been pampered by both of their parents for years, treated as the golden boy, even when he failed. Reality had set in though, as he grew older and realized that the rest of the world would not be so forgiving. He did not possess the strength of spirit to withstand any sort of challenge, and when he'd fallen into the bottle, he'd never found his way back out. Ruth's heart broke for him, really, it did, but there was so much pain in the world already, and she found she had little time to spend reassuring her wayward stepbrother.

As she finished her glass of wine and made her way towards the stairs, her phone began to ring.

The dread returned, as she realized it was the landline trilling merrily, and not her mobile. _Oh Christ,_ she thought, _please don't be him again._ With no small amount of trepidation she crossed the kitchen, and answered the phone.

"Hello?"

"Ruth." It took her a moment to place the voice; it was a woman's voice, and as she continued to speak, it clicked in Ruth's mind. "I hope this isn't a bad time."

"What is it, Angela?" Ruth asked. Angela sounded, if possible, colder than usual, and a million possibilities, horrible situations Peter could have gotten himself into, began to swirl through her mind.

"You finally got your wish," Angela hissed. "He's dead, Ruth. Peter is dead, and it's all because of you, you filthy-"

"What did you say?" Ruth cut across Angela's diatribe. Her heart was beating wildly in her chest, her breath coming in unsteady gasps as she clutched the kitchen counter for support. She ignored the insults Angela was hurling at her; her thoughts spun chaotically through her mind, unable to settle on anything other than a growing sense of horror.

"He killed himself, Ruth. Your brother killed himself, because you couldn't be bothered-"

Ruth hung up the phone. She'd heard enough. As the tears overwhelmed her she collapsed into a heap on the floor, clutching the phone to her chest. _What have I done?_ She thought. _Oh Peter, I should have answered your call, I should have been here, I should have taken better care of you. What have I done?_

* * *

 _1 May 2006_

"There is something you could tell her, isn't there, Ruth?" Harry's voice was low and soft, dropping even lower when he spoke her name, but she found she could not look at him, not now, not with Adam watching. She felt herself crumbling, silently imploding at his words, as he explained that he had been busy looking at the psychiatric reports – Angela's, and her own. She wanted to shout at him for that, to scream _how dare you,_ but she found she had lost her voice.

Contained in her psychiatric report was a long and rambling conversation in which Five's resident shrink had encouraged her to talk about Peter, about how he had always pushed for something more between them, how it had caused a rift in their little family, how Angela had stood in the middle, spewing vitriol all the while. Ruth had been so careful during that conversation not to mention her son once, not to mention how she had pulled herself away from Peter, not just for her own sake, but for Will's, not wanting him to be influenced by someone as unbalanced as Peter, or someone as hateful as Angela. Harry had read the reports and determined that the quickest way to break down Angela's defenses was to tell her that the relationship between Ruth and Peter was more than it appeared. He wanted Ruth to go in there, to lie to Angela, to break her spirit, and save them all.

 _I won't do it,_ her heart cried out in protest. What Harry didn't know, couldn't know, was that telling Angela that she had slept with Peter would not be enough. After serving for so long as a spook, Angela had seen more horror than most, and such a little thing, a little thing she had so long suspected, would not be enough to break her. What Angela truly feared, deep down in her gut, the crime she had so often accused Ruth of, was more sinister than that. A part of Angela was truly, deeply afraid that Peter was Will's father.

If Ruth walked into that room, and told that lie, Angela would shatter into a thousand tiny pieces.

Ruth was afraid it might shatter her, too.

 _No one will know,_ she told herself, even as Harry tried to talk her round and Adam looked on, flabbergasted. _They won't be able to hear you. Do it, you can, you can save us all._

Harry was watching her expectantly; of all the demands he had made of her, this was the first time he had asked her to do something she found truly unsettling. This was the first time Harry had asked her to serve as he would ask a field agent, the first time he had asked her to sacrifice a piece of herself in the name of the service. She watched him, watching her, felt the heat radiating from his soft brown eyes. Adam ceased to exist in that moment; he was irrelevant, completely ostracized from the silent, horrible battle of wills taking place between Ruth and Harry as they gazed at one another. Harry's eyes seemed to whisper to her _do this for me, be brave for me,_ even as she felt her own beseeching him _please, no, don't ask this of me._

But he did not back down. In her heart, she feared he was right, feared this was the only way to protect themselves, to bring an end to this night of terror.

Her shoulders sagged. The corners of his lips ticked upward, victorious.

The long walk to the room where Angela had sequestered herself was quiet and intolerable for Ruth. For twenty years now she had walked every day with this burden, with the memory of that horrible man, his terrible face, the terrible things he'd done, the vicious way he'd left a piece of himself to haunt her steps forever more. Her mother had denied her pain, had refused to listen, but Ruth knew the truth, and she carried it with her. How could it be that she was even considering denying that truth, denying the awfulness of what had happened to her, replacing it with a lie that was almost worse in its insidiousness?

 _You'll do it, because you have to. Because Harry asked you to._

Inside the room she demanded Jo's release, in exchange for information, and Angela, half-mad and completely desperate, complied. For a moment Jo hesitated in the doorway, and Ruth fought the urge to drag her bodily from the room; she did not want any witnesses to what was about to happen.

Alone, at last, Ruth told Angela everything about the Contingent Events Committee, watched the hope and then the utter horror dawning on Angela's face. _How did it come to this?_ Ruth wondered as she spoke. Angela had always been so strong, so brave; how could it be that this sad, cowering woman on the floor before her, with her disheveled hair and her watery eyes, could have replaced the hard-bitten, pragmatic spook Ruth had known in their younger days? _Was I ever really young?_ Ruth wondered. Sometimes she felt as if she'd been born old; old, and weary.

"I have to tell you something," she said as she knelt on the floor across from Angela, her eyes on the trigger all the while. This would need to be delicately handled, treated more as a last confession than as a triumphant declaration. "About something that happened, when he was sixteen, and I was fourteen."

For her part, Angela did not move; she was hardly breathing. "No," she whispered, her voice rough and disbelieving.

"You were right, Angela. Peter is Will's father." Angela shook her head, her eyes wide and unblinking, but Ruth continued relentlessly. "There were…rows. His father wasn't getting on with my mother. We thought they were going to break up, and…" her voice trailed off as she struggled to continue. The trick to a good lie, she knew, was to include just enough truth to make it seem believable. And there was truth enough to spare, in those words. During the last few years she'd lived at home, there had been nights, many nights, when they had laid together on her bed while their parents screamed at one another. They had laid together and gazed at one another with Will nestled quietly between them, and she knew, she _knew_ that all she ever needed to do was ask, and he would give his heart to her without reservation. She couldn't, though, she never could, because she had Will to think about. What sort of life would that have been for him? How could she have done such a thing, when she had a child to look after? It was madness, and she knew it. "We couldn't tell our parents the truth, so we lied." The tears slipped silently down Angela's cheeks, and still Ruth spoke. "You see, it shouldn't have been my mother and his father who met.

It should have been me and Peter. We should have been a family. Me, and Peter, and our son." The words tasted like so much poison in her mouth. "Our parents stayed together, though, and I couldn't bear it. I…I just left."

"That's why you never got on with me," Angela said quietly. "You're still in love with him."

"Yes," Ruth lied. She had never loved Peter, never in the way that he wanted her to. As she spoke, she wondered what might have happened if she did, if she had opened herself up to him and everything he felt for her. Would he still be dead? Would she still be so terribly lonely? "He always drank, Angela, even when we were young."

"He was a dreamer," Angela whispered. _Yes he was, but his dreams turned to nightmares in the end,_ Ruth thought.

"And in love with me. Always. Never with you. I have his son to prove it. What do you have, Angela?"

And with those words, Ruth watched Angela Wells's spirit break in two, never to be put together again.

 _What have I done?_ She thought. _God forgive me, what have I done?_


	33. Chapter 33

Harry sat very still, his eyes wide and disbelieving as he gazed down at a photograph of himself, clutched in his hands. His whole body trembled, and he hardly dared breathe. _How did it come to this?_ He asked himself. _How could it be?_

In his hands he held a dossier. Proof that there was a mole within MI-5, with evidence of that mole's betrayal going back years. And staring back at him from the dossier was his own face. Someone had lied, someone with a power he could not comprehend had fabricated _decades_ worth of lies, and filed them all away. A copy of this dossier had been delivered to the DG earlier in the evening, and Harry knew his time was running out.

It was false, all of it, of course it was; the only thing Harry hated more than the Russians was the Irish. He would never have betrayed his country, his values. He'd spent his entire adult life fighting for those values, had sacrificed _everything –_ his marriage, his family, his friendships, his dearest love – in the belief that he was fighting for something greater than himself.

And in the blinking of an eye, he had lost it all.

 _Not long now,_ he thought, reaching out with a shaking hand to lift his tumbler of whiskey from the side table, taking a long, fortifying sip. They would come for him soon, he knew. No doubt the order had already been given, and CO-19 were likely on their way, careening through the London streets, guns at the ready. They would take him at home, and they would not hesitate to shoot him, should he attempt to resist.

Harry had no plans to resist.

He would be calm, he would be collected, he would acquiesce to their every demand. If he could just stay alive, if he could just find some way to speak to his team, some way to set them all to work on finding out who was behind this.

 _Surely they won't believe it?_ He thought. Surely Ros, and Lucas, and Jo, and Connie, and Malcolm, these people who knew all to well what sort of man he was, who knew him better than anyone else in the world, would not blindly accept his guilt. Particularly not Connie, who knew his personal feelings as regarded the Russians better than anyone.

He opened his mouth, closed it again, feeling like a fish caught in a net, scooped out of the water, unable to breathe, unable to defend himself. _I have to act, now,_ he realized grimly. The clock was ticking, and Harry Pearce's time was running out.

Suddenly sure of his purpose, he reached for his mobile, and dialed a familiar number. As the phone rang, he crossed the room, twitching back the curtains to gaze out into the night. As far as he could see there were no strange cars on the street, no black vans full of gunmen dashing down the lane. Dimly he thought he could hear the whirr of helicopter blades, but he desperately tried to convince himself it was all in his head.

 _You have time, still. Get Lucas to Moscow. Take a breath._

Months ago, when Lucas first returned to him, Harry had stashed an insurance policy in the bedroom of his agent's dingy flat. A fake passport, a cache of names and numbers and information. Of all the members of his team, Lucas was best prepared to handle this particular mission, given that he was both fluent in Russian, and intimately familiar with the inner workings of the Russian intelligence system. It galled Harry, to think that he was once more sending Lucas into the lion's den, this time without any sort of back up, without any sort of plan of extraction. _Needs must,_ though. It had to be Lucas, and it had to be now.

To Harry's very great surprise, Lucas did not even attempt to disagree. Though they had often had their quarrels in the past, and Harry had accused him of betraying his country more than once, Lucas was prepared to act now, to save him, to save the Service, and for that Harry was profoundly grateful. As the call ended he collapsed back in his chair, his heart still hammering in his chest. _Any second now,_ he thought.

Ruth's face swam before his eyes as he sat in his chair. _At least she's not here to see this,_ he told himself, but he took scant comfort in that fact. Ruth would never believe such lies about him, and she was nothing if not tenacious; there was no one he wanted in his corner more than Ruth, just now. But Ruth was far away, and Harry knew he would never see her again. Even if he managed to survive this ordeal, even if he wasn't left to rot at Her Majesty's Pleasure for all the rest of his days, Ruth was lost to him.

 _Oh, Christ, Will._

What would happen if Will tried to ring him on Saturday and Harry wasn't there to answer the phone? What would happen if Will swung by tomorrow night, dropping in unannounced the way he so often did? Harry knew Will was in London for a few days, spending time with his friends, and he shuddered to think what sort of treatment Will might receive at the hands of the Security Services personnel who would no doubt be watching his home day and night during his internment, waiting to see if anyone would try to break in, and rescue his secrets.

Before he could even think of ringing the boy, though, his mobile trilled shrilly beside him. Harry jumped; his thoughts had been miles away, and the sound shocked him to the core.

It was the Home Secretary calling, ringing him up to ascertain the security of Sugar Horse in these uncertain times. _Is this a test?_ Harry wondered. _Does he know already?_

Frantically Harry rushed to console the HS over the sound of his own pounding heart. _They're coming, they're coming, Christ, they're coming for me._

Over the years, Harry had interrogated his fair share of traitors. He knew exactly what sort of techniques were used, knew exactly what he could expect, sitting on the other side of the table in one of those tiny rooms deep in the bowels of Thames House. It wouldn't be the first time he found himself subjected to… _alternative interrogation methods,_ and likely would not be the worst; he still carried the scars from a particularly dreadful weekend he'd spent at the mercy of a rogue IRA cell in Belfast. No, MI-5 would not subject him to anything like that. And even if they di, Harry did not fear pain; what Harry feared, above all else, was that while Five was busy wasting its time on him, the real mole would slip free, and his entire network would be destroyed. Twenty years of work, countless agents he had cultivated, had molded to trust him, to share everything with him, would be left helpless. They would be slaughtered, every last one of them, some of them heinously, and all the while Harry would be sat chained to a chair, powerless to help them.

And if Sugar Horse should fall, at such a crucial time as this, what would become of his country? What would happen, should they find themselves utterly unable to neutralize the Russian threat? What would happen to his team, if Harry were finally removed from his office, if they were thrown at the mercy of the wolves? Ruth had given her life, to see him remain in Section D; was her sacrifice all for naught?

The HS bid him good night, and once more Harry was alone in the shattering, palpating silence.

He made one final call.

* * *

"Harry? What is it, mate?" Will shouted, barely able to hear Harry's voice over the din of the god-awful club his mates had dragged him to. The music was so loud, and the drinks so strong, that Will fancied he could see the walls moving in time to the beat.

"…going away for a while…" The connection was bad, inside the club. Will fought his way toward the doors, stumbling out into the coolness of the night. Out on the pavement a few people were gathered in little clumps, smoking and laughing together, and Will walked away from them, searching for a better signal.

"What was that, mate?" Will asked.

"I was saying, I'm going away for a while," Harry repeated. There was something strange about his voice; Will couldn't be sure, given the state he was in himself, but it seemed to him that Harry's voice was shaking.

"You want me to look after Scarlet?" Will asked.

"No!" Harry said at once. That tone brought Will up short; _what the hell is that about, then?_ He wondered. What could possibly have Harry so worked up? Before he could ask, Harry continued speaking, his voice a bit softer. "No. I just wanted to say, I don't know…how long I'll be. I'll ring you, when you can come round again. Take care of yourself, Will."

Now Will was truly frightened. Listening to Harry speak had sparked a memory, a terror Will had almost forgotten. A few years before he'd received a strange message from his Uncle Peter, had heard that familiar voice speaking in a tone so similar to Harry's now, a tone that was frightened, and horribly final. That very night, his mother had rung him to tell him that Peter had died. _Christ, Harry, what have you gotten yourself into?_ Will wondered.

"And you," Will said. "Be careful."

There was a moment's silence, just a beat during which all he could hear was Harry's heavy breathing on the other end of the phone. And then the call ended, and Will was left alone on the pavement with his mobile in his hand, and his heart sitting heavy as lead in his chest.

* * *

With the matter of Will attended to, Harry found he was breathing a little easier. The storm was coming, and no stopping it, but at least Will was taken care of, at least he'd had the chance to speak to the boy one last time, to hear his voice, to reassure himself that there was still some good in the world, somewhere. Will was a good lad, with a kind heart, a young man who reminded Harry that some people never entered his world of darkness and intrigue, that some people lived their lives in peace. It was for that peace that Harry had sacrificed so much, and every time he thought of Will, he was reminded just how necessary his sacrifices had been.

He reached for his remote, turned on his radio, ratcheting up the volume until he fancied he could feel the music rattling his fillings, and reached for his glass. He downed the rest of his whiskey in one gulp, and then leaned back against the soft leather of his chair, wrapping his hands around the end of the armrests to keep them from trembling.

As the music swelled a memory came to Harry, of sitting ramrod straight in a church pew, listening as the words of Revelation were read to the assembled congregation.

 _And I looked, and behold a pale horse: and his name that sat on him was Death, and Hell followed with him._

Harry raised his eyes to the ceiling, and saw his light fixture swinging as though caught in a heavy wind.

 _Death is upon me,_ he thought.


	34. Chapter 34

_Beware. Tiresias wakes 3:00 p.m. tomorrow._

Harry stared at the words on the page, his eyes dry and his vision fuzzy. The last thirty-six hours had been a horror show; from realizing that Bernard had set him up, to being stripped of his clothes and shoes, held without food or water or sleep while Charles Grady pumped him full of God only knew what sort of a chemical cocktail. Heady visions of his children, of Jane, of Ruth, of Will, of Davie bloody King swam behind his eyelids while he desperately tried to hold on to what remained of his self-restraint. There had been moments, many moments, when he had sat trembling on that chair and very nearly spilled his heart out. It wasn't the first time he had been subjected to such a trial, but it was perhaps the most personal.

Charles Grady had hit a little too close to home, as he summed up Harry's failures as a father, as a husband. Yes, he blamed himself for Graham's drug abuse. And yes, he blamed himself for the way Jane had fallen to pieces, during the last trying years of their marriage. He blamed himself for what had happened to Ruth, blamed himself for orphaning Will. Everything he'd done, he'd done in the name of Queen and country, but in the process he felt as if he had destroyed everything he ever loved. And as he sat there, shivering in that hideous jumpsuit, his feet cold on the floor, he longed to confess his sins.

Not the sins Grady accused him of; no, Harry was no traitor, and in no position to give up the answers Grady sought. Instead it was the private sins, the sins of the heart, the sins of the flesh, that weighed heavily on his conscience. Held prisoner inside his own castle, Harry had sweated and strained and struggled and finally reached the only possible conclusion. The only MI-5 operatives aware of Sugar Horse were himself, Richard Dolby, and the deceased Hugo Prince. As Grady questioned him he turned those three names round and round inside his mind; he knew that he had never confessed the truth of Sugar Horse to anyone, and that left Dolby and Prince. Dolby had never been a friend to Harry, true, but could the DG really be responsible for this sort of betrayal? For that matter, could Hugo?

Harry had already considered the possibility of Hugo having spilled his secrets to Connie James, his erstwhile lover, but Harry's investigation into her had proved her loyalty. Hadn't it?

He sat, and wondered, and questioned every interaction he had ever had with the woman, and the truth slowly dawned on him.

Grady demanded answers, the Home Secretary came and threatened him with ruination, but Harry's mind was miles away, turning the evidence over and over. And then it came to him, all at once, with shocking, stunning clarity: Operation Renaissance.

So Harry buried his pride, and sacrificed himself, his honor, in the hopes that Ros Myers would hear him and understand.

And she did.

Everything happened rather quickly, once Harry had the chance to speak with Ros. He slowly scrawled a few names on a piece of paper, names of Russian operatives who had never even been considered for Sugar Horse, people who would die, because of the traitor in his house, people who could be deemed acceptable losses, if while they lay dying Harry and his team could put an end to the threats that surrounded his beloved country at every turn.

Connie killed Ben, Harry's clothes were returned to him, and he watched one of his oldest friends being dragged from the Grid, her hands cuffed behind her back, the words _almost made it_ echoing in Harry's mind. She _had_ almost made it, had almost escaped justice for Ben, for the three Sugar Horse assets who had already lost their lives. The totality of her deception stunned Harry; how could it be, he wondered, that this woman he trusted, this woman he respected, this woman who had stood by his side through so much horror, this woman who had told him the truth of Davie King's terrible attack on Ruth, who had given him the means to exact his revenge and offered him a cup of tea afterwards, could have possibly been working for their enemies all along?

It was madness. Of all the betrayals Harry had endured in his life, this one hurt the most, for it was the one he least suspected. Juliet had always been a heartless sort of beast, more interested in power than in equanimity, and Tessa had always been a self-serving cow, more interested in her own success than the greater good. Connie, though; Connie had been by his side in Northern Ireland, had answered his call when he was most in need of help, had always seemed to be a team player. Now he knew the truth, he realized that he had never known whose team she'd been on in the first place.

There were arrangements to make for Ben, and a phone call to his parents, a call that Jo had asked to make, given her connection to the young man. Harry had acquiesced; it was right, that Jo should be the one to tell them, that Jo should offer them some comfort. No doubt she would be better at it than he was, despite his many years of practice. He had given her their contact information, and hoped to steal away into the privacy of his own office, to pour himself a drink and take a moment to catch his breath, but the wheels of intrigue spun ever on, and Ros had news for him.

 _Beware. Tiresias wakes 3:00 p.m. tomorrow._

 _Tiresias_ , Harry mused. _Why do I know that name? Ruth would know. If Ruth were here she could likely tell me his whole sorry tale._

 _Christ_ , but he missed her. She had always been a comfort to him, her soft, warm voice, the compassion in her bright blue eyes, the gentleness of her touch. While under the effects of Grady's mad concoctions Harry had conjured the image of her face, had nearly called her name, so desperate was he to see her again. To see her, to hear her, perhaps to hold her, to feel the sense of peace that she always inspired in him. but she was gone, far from his side, and he was alone, left to muddle through this madness without the one person who could have helped him most.

* * *

Ros's madcap plan to kidnap Connie worked out rather well, and once more Harry found himself face to face with his old friend, albeit under much different circumstances. It took every ounce of self-control that he possessed not to strike her face, as she sat there cool and collected and demanding a new life in New Zealand while precious seconds ticked away. He wanted to roar, to scream, to rage, to make her feel every ounce of pain she had inflicted upon him, but he knew that now was not the time. She had behaved as a foreign operative, and now he would treat her as such. It was time to make a deal with the devil.

"Do you think the Russians don't know you've got me? Do you think I haven't let them know where every safe house is?"

These last words she delivered with a knowing glance at Harry, and he felt his stomach drop through the floor.

 _Christ, no,_ he thought.

"Give me the room," he said quietly to Ros and Lucas. They began to protest at once, but a single look from him silenced them, and sent them on their way.

"Alone at last," Connie said with a sardonic little smile.

Before the discovery of her betrayal, Harry had always been quietly impressed with how well Connie had done in maintaining her sense of perspective, her even keel, despite everything she'd been through. When he looked at her now, though, she seemed to him to be half-mad. She had bloody well _hissed_ at him, on the Grid, and now she seemed to show no real concern for the possible consequences of her actions. _Is she completely unhinged?_ Harry asked himself as he gazed at her. _If she's capable of betrayal on this scale, capable of murdering Ben, what else has she done? What else has she lied about?_

"Your _nephew_ is in London today, isn't he, Harry? Staying at _his mother's house_ , perhaps?"

It was the tone of her voice, the emphasis on the words _his mother's house_ that told Harry everything he needed to know. For a single moment he stood frozen, too shocked even to move. Ruth's home was on the MI-5 safe house registry. If Connie really had turned that information over to the FSB, there could be a Russian hit squad on their way to Will right now, barreling through London with murder on their minds.

"He looks rather like his mother, doesn't he?" she continued, smiling that same deranged little smile.

"How did you know?" Harry demanded. As far as he was aware, Ruth and Connie had never once crossed paths, and Connie had not mentioned Will again after their little Christmas gathering.

"Oh come now, Harry. I've been keeping an eye on your Ruth since she was fourteen years old. I've followed her career, watched her raise that young man all on her own." Connie rolled her shoulders, sighed, pursed her lips. Harry hardly dared to breathe as he listened to her confession. "In the beginning, I kept tabs on her because I was concerned Davie King might find out about the boy, might try to take him away from her. After a few years, though, it sort of got to be a habit. She's quite brilliant, your Ruth. Actually, I suppose that's not entirely correct, is it, Harry?" she added in a soft, bitter voice. "She was never yours at all, was she?"

Revulsion such as Harry had never known filled him as he stared at her. How could it be, he wondered, that just a few days ago he would have counted this woman as one of his dearest friends, and now she sat before him spewing such venom? _The world has gone mad, and me along with it,_ Harry thought.

"Would you like to know where she is, Harry?"

The quiet question caught him completely off guard.

 _Do not trust her, do not even dare to hope,_ he told himself sternly. There was no way to tell fact from fiction, when Connie spoke; she was desperate and trapped and looking for a way to save her own skin. Harry knew that she would tell him anything, just now, to ensure her own survival. And yet still, somewhere deep in the darkest corner of his heart, he cried out for the answer.

"Connie-"

"I told you, Harry, looking after her got to be a habit. I've kept it up, even after her little disappearing act. Would you like to know the name of the hospital where she works? The name of the village where she lives? The name of the man who shares her bed?"

"Enough!" Harry bellowed. His vision went a hazy, a red cloud of rage blinding him, making him foolish. He wanted nothing more in that moment than to wrap his hands around Connie's neck and squeeze, squeeze until the lies stopped, until that triumphant little smirk disappeared from her face, until the world righted itself beneath his feet. _The man who shares her bed;_ the words rocketed around inside his mind, bringing with them a host of torrid, unsettling images. Someone else in bed with Ruth, _his_ Ruth, someone else making her smile, making her laugh, making her scream, making her come. _Connie's lying,_ he told himself sternly. _She's a liar, please, God, let her be lying._

"Tick tock, Harry, tick tock," she crooned.

Harry took a deep breath, and called for Ros and Lucas.

* * *

"Will?" Harry's voice came through scratchy and uncertain.

Will sat straight up; he had been lounging on the sofa in his mother's sitting room, half asleep and watching the television while he waited for a pizza to arrive. It had been nearly two days, since that last enigmatic phone call from Harry, and in that time Will had been deeply worried about the old man. He knew that Harry spent most of his time behind a desk, but he was still a spy, and the one thing that Will had learned, during the last two years, was that spies die. Young or old, brave or foolish, spies die, and Harry was not indestructible. The thought of losing the old man, after he'd lost his mum, after he'd lost his uncle, was more than he could bear.

"Harry!" He cried, relieved. "Shit, mate, you had me worried. You all right, then?"

"Will, listen to me. Are you in London?" Harry barked at him.

 _Shit._ From the sound of it, whatever Harry had been afraid of, it wasn't over yet. Will could not imagine, did not want to imagine, what could possibly be horrible enough to frighten Harry Pearce.

"Yeah, I'm at mum's," he answered quickly.

"Get out." Harry's voice was soft but urgent. "Get out, now. Don't pack a bag, just go. Get on the first train to Oxford. Ring me when you get there. Understood?"

Will gulped. "Harry-"

"Do you understand me?" Harry demanded harshly, in a tone that Will had never heard him use. Never in his life had anyone spoken to Will with the kind of authority, the kind of urgency that Harry was using now, and it frightened the young man beyond all reason. He was on his feet in an instant, searching for his shoes.

"Yeah, mate, I understand. I'm going."

On the other end of the line, he heard Harry breathe a sigh of relief. "Thank you. Take care of yourself, Will."

"You too, Harry. Don't get shot."

Harry made a sound that might have been a laugh, or might have been a sob, and ended the call without another word.

 _Right then,_ Will thought. _Here we go._ He slipped into his shoes, pocketed his mobile, scooped up his holdall from where he had dropped it just inside the kitchen earlier that same morning, and made for the door.

It swung open before he ever reached it.

There, standing on the front steps of his mother's house, were six people, six people in dark clothes, six people with guns in their hands, six people whose eyes gleamed when they saw him, who advanced on him at once with murder in their gazes.

 _Shit_ , Will thought. His heart pounded madly in his chest, his breath came in unsteady gasps. He was not a spy, was not trained for this, not equipped to handle the terror that filled him at the sight of those six people.

He dropped his holdall, turned, and sprinted down the hallway, heading for the back door, but he never made it. One of the men tearing after him lunged forward, caught Will around the waist, and dragged him kicking and screaming to the ground. Something heavy struck the back of his head, and around him the world faded into darkness.


	35. Chapter 35

Will came to slowly, struggling to overcome the pounding in his head, fighting to focus his bleary eyes on the room around him. There was nothing particularly remarkable about the space; given the thin, beige carpet, the dingy white walls, and the tall, curtainless windows, it could have been any office in London, except that it was completely bare of furniture. Will found himself slumped on the floor in a corner of the room, his hands bound together with cable ties. A man loitered in the doorway, a gun dangling negligently in his right hand, his left hand tucked in his pocket.

For a moment Will simply stared at the man, trying to decide what to do next, what to say. Perhaps, he thought, it might be better if he didn't say anything at all. There was no way for him to know who had taken him, or why; all he knew was that Harry had called to warn him, and then these people had attacked him. Did Harry know who they were? Did Harry know they had him?

Will hoped so. If there was one person he was certain would be capable of finding him, of rescuing him from this place and these people, it was the old man. It might take some time, but Will had faith in Harry. Harry was a spook of the highest order, a powerful man with untold resources and, in Will's mind, an almost superhuman ability to accomplish whatever task he set his mind to. Harry would find him, Will was certain of it. In the meantime, Will decided it would be best to keep his mouth shut. He didn't want to upset these people, didn't want to earn himself another blow to the head, and he really, _really_ didn't want to know what it might feel like to be shot.

"You're awake," the man said quietly, lifting his eyebrow at Will in surprise.

He was a rather nondescript looking fellow, clean-shaven, his short, dark hair close-cropped and tidy. He wore a black shirt beneath a black jacket, blue jeans, and black boots. Will was certain that given the opportunity he would not have been able to pick the man out of a crowd. One thing did stand out, though; he spoke with a bit of an accent. _Russian_ , Will thought.

Will made no attempt to respond to his captor's observation. This seemed to strike the man as funny; he gave a dark little chuckle, then leaned through the doorway, shouting to someone down the hall in a language Will did not understand.

Why would a group of heavily armed Russians take him prisoner? What could they hope to gain from such an action? He didn't know anything, hadn't seen anything. He heard the sharp sound of footsteps coming down the hall, and his heart began to race in his chest.

 _What if it's something to do with mum?_ He thought, feeling the terror rising sharply in his gut. Harry had never told him the full story, about why Ruth had been forced to leave her life behind, never explained who or what was behind the discovery that had cost her her freedom. What if it was something to do with these people? What if they knew exactly who he was, and were determined to use him to get to her? Not long after she left, Harry had told him that likely she had been worried for his safety, that the people behind her disappearance might try to come after him. Had that finally happened?

A second man entered the room while Will was ruminating in the corner. This man was more eccentric-looking; he had long, flyway hair that fell about his face in a riot of dark curls. He stopped in the doorway, staring hard at Will, and then spoke to his compatriot in a harsh voice. Though Will could not understand the words, the tone came through loud and clear. This second man spoke with a certain amount of authority, and a certain amount of disdain. He was clearly not pleased, but this did nothing to assuage Will's fears.

"What's your name, boy?" the second man asked him in a voice as heavily accented as the first had been.

"Will," he answered, not wanting to give more information than was necessary.

"Tell me Will - do you know a man called Harry Pearce?" the man looked almost bored, as he spoke to Will, and that quiet aloofness terrified Will more completely than if the man had shouted.

For a moment, Will considered lying. He could lie, and say no, and hope that was the answer they were looking for. But he wasn't sure that would work in his favor; perhaps, given the fact that they had roughed him up and taken him captive, they would simply dispense with him altogether, if they knew he was of no use to them. Then again, if they knew that he _did_ have a connection to Harry, perhaps they would decide to hurt him, just to see if Harry would come to his aid.

 _Christ, what do I say?_ Will wondered. His heart was hammering loudly in his ears, his tongue stuck to the roof of his mouth as his thoughts seemed to stutter to a halt.

His silence spoke for him, in the end.

"I think you do," the second man said softly. "That house, where my people found you. Do you know whose house it is?"

"It's mine," Will said defensively. It _was_ his house, after all, his mum had left it to him. Yes, he had sold it to Harry, and yes, Harry saw to its upkeep, but all of Ruth's things were still there, and Will often stayed there on his frequent trips to London. In his mind, the house was still his, still hers, still theirs, despite the name on the deed. The man did not seem impressed by his response, however.

"It belongs to MI-5," the man said in a bored sort of voice. "Why were you there?"

"I was…I was…" Will stuttered, trying and failing to come up with a good retort. Ordinarily he was quick on his feet, armed and ready with a million witty quips, but he was so deeply frightened by this quiet man, by the guns, by everything that had happened over the last few hours, that he found he simply could not think.

"Maybe you were waiting for your Uncle Harry, eh, Will?" the man suggested.

 _Oh Christ,_ Will thought. Any hope he might have held, of this all being one big misunderstanding, disappeared at those words.

"Only he's not your uncle, is he? Tell me, Will, when was the last time you spoke to your mother?"

 _How does he know? Shit, shit, shit, shit…_

The curly-haired man nodded, apparently satisfied for now. Will couldn't imagine what he could possibly have gleaned, from their brief conversation, and that thought worried him. As he watched his captors exchanged a few more heated words in Russian, and then the curly-haired man turned on his heel, and left them once again.

* * *

"Harry, you're walking directly into the arms of people who want you dead."

 _That sums it up rather nicely,_ Harry thought grimly. Yes, he was walking directly into a trap, and he knew it. Even if his plan succeeded, there was every possibility that Viktor Sarkisian and his ilk would sell Harry on, once the bomb had been defused, a very good chance that he would not survive this day. Yet Harry could see no other way.

Lucas and Ros and Connie absolutely had to locate that bomb. They had to diffuse it before the Russians could be allowed to cripple the U.K. Before the whole of London was swallowed up in the fallout from the explosion of a nuclear device. Before Will, and Catherine, and everyone and everything that Harry loved was turned to dust and ruins. Harry would walk directly into the lion's den, and offer himself as a sacrificial lamb, and it would be worth it, in the end, if that catastrophe could be avoided.

"Then I'll try my best to be charming," he said, straightening his shoulders and trying to sound more confident than he felt.

"My God, then we're in trouble," Malcolm said, the corner of his mouth ticking up as the shadow of a smile crossed his face. Dear Malcolm, trying to be strong, trying to be brave, standing by Harry's side, the way he always had done.

Harry reached out and shook his hand before he turned and departed, leaving Thames House for what might prove to be the last time.

As he drove to the rendezvous point, Harry considered calling Will again, but managed to restrain himself. Will had promised he would ring, once he reached Oxford, and Harry knew the boy would be true to his word. Harry took some comfort in that fact, that he had managed to get to Will, get him to safety, before the bottom fell out. Hopefully Will was even now on a train, heading far away, and Harry was grateful for it. If he could do nothing else, if he could save no one else, at least he had protected Ruth's son. He hoped that one day Will would find his mother again, and tell her that story, and he hoped that Ruth would smile, just for him. As much as he would like to see that smile in person, he would settle just for imagining it, and count himself a lucky man.

He briefly considered calling Catherine, but in the end, he resisted. Catherine was in no immediate danger; he wasn't even entirely sure she was in London, just now, and a call from him would only worry her. If everything went according to plan, the bomb would be stopped, and she would be all right. Harry had to believe that she would be all right, lest he go mad with fear for her.

 _But what about Graham?_ His heart whispered. _What about your son, your only son? Where is he? What have you done to protect him?_

The time he'd spent at the mercy of Charles Grady had reopened all of those old wounds, and Harry was shocked by the re-emergence of his concern for his son. Most days he could bury that fear, that guilt; he had spent plenty of time practicing the painful art of divorcing himself from those particular emotions. But Grady had brought it all back to the forefront of his mind; Harry didn't even know where his own son was, didn't know if he was well, if he was strung out somewhere, if he were in trouble, if he were dead. That thought brought him up short; he knew that Graham wasn't in prison because he had long ago instructed Malcolm to quietly put a system in place, searching every police database in the country for his son's name. A few times over the last ten years the system had pinged, and Harry had made a call, terrifying some low-level plod into releasing his son before matters could escalate. He had no such protocol in place to check the morgues, however; could his son be languishing even now, unclaimed in the basement of some horrid hospital? Surely if he'd been hurt the police would have some way to contact him, or Jane. Wouldn't they?

 _You're running away with yourself, old man,_ Harry chided himself as he pulled into the designated carpark. It was amazing, how the thought of his impending demise could throw everything into rather harsh perspective. Three men in dark suits were waiting for him beside a large SUV. Harry parked his car, took a deep breath, and went to face his fate like a man.

As soon as he reached them he delivered the handshake protocol. The men responded with the appropriate words, they shook hands, and before Harry realized what was happening they threw a bag over his head, and bundled him into the car.

 _Once more into the breach,_ he thought.

* * *

Will wasn't sure how long he had been in this god awful room, but he knew that he was bloody tired of it. His back was sore from lounging on the floor, his head was pounding from the blow he'd taken at his mothers house, and his shoulders ached from hunching over, trying to relieve the pressure on the ties that bound his hands. His captor had offered him a bottle of water, and even at one point supplied him with a sandwich, but had not spoken a single word to him. No one else had come to see them, and as far as Will could see, this annoyed the Russian as much it did him.

 _What's the point of all this?_ Will wanted to shout. What good was it, keeping him tied up in some room somewhere, not telling him anything, not doing anything, just keeping him there against his will? _Perhaps they've told Harry I'm here,_ Will supposed, though they had not snapped his picture, or filmed him holding the day's newspaper, or done anything else that kidnappers in films always seemed to do. He couldn't understand what was happening, and he wasn't entirely sure he wanted to. As much as he longed for his captivity to come to an end, he was deeply afraid of what that might mean for him, and for Harry.

Before he could go completely mad with suppositions, the curly-haired man returned, and spoke to the guard in a quiet voice. He could have shouted, for all the good it would have done Will; his mother spoke a bit of Russian, but she had never taught him, and he had never wanted to learn. He was seriously reconsidering his position on that subject just now, however, given the circumstances.

The guard crossed the room, and caught Will under the arms, raising him unsteadily to his feet.

"Where are you taking me?" Will demanded as they led him from the room. He had wanted so badly to stay calm, to stay quiet, to be brave, but fear had loosened his tongue.

"Quiet," the curly-haired man said sharply.

Will opened his mouth to protest, and the man struck him once across the face, hard. He felt his lip split beneath the blow, tasted the blood trickling into his mouth. Will did not speak again.

* * *

"Where are you taking me?" Harry asked hoarsely, when Sarkisian and his men dragged him from the boot of the car and bundled him into the helicopter.

Their ill-treatment of him was no more than he expected, really. The bomb had been safely detonated, Ros and Lucas were free, and now Sarkisian had acted true to his own nature, and gone back on his word. Harry had not been released, upon the completion of their operation, but he had known, somewhere in his heart, that Sarkisian would never let him go. The head of FSB operations in London was a slimy, self-serving, lying bastard, and Harry knew it. He knew that Sarkisian had killed at least two of his own officers in the past, when they displeased him, that he routinely delivered false reports to his superiors in Moscow in order to improve his own standing, that he had no respect for laws or reason or morality, beyond the saving of his own skin. All that Harry could hope, as the blades of the chopper began to whir overhead, was that Sarkisian had sold him to someone, anyone, other than the Redbacks. He could clearly see the pictures of Zaf's ruined body when he closed his eyes; whatever fate waited in store for him, he prayed it was not that.

"Don't worry about where we're going," Sarkisian told him. "Worry about who will be waiting for us when we get there."

There wasn't really anything Harry could say to that, and so he spoke no more. He gazed out the window, his hands bound together in his lap, and tried to conjure the image of Ruth's face in his mind. He tried to remember the exact shade of her hair, the way her eyes sparkled when she laughed, the little dimples in her cheeks when she smiled, the brush of her fingertips against his hand. If he was to be sold, tortured, killed, so be it; his last thoughts would be of her, of everything he had ever hoped for, and everything that had been taken from him.

 _At least Will is safe,_ he reminded himself. _You've done that. You've done that for her._


	36. Chapter 36

**A/N: To those of you in the States, Happy Thanksgiving! To the rest of you, I hope you have a lovely Thursday. I'll be out of town for the holiday, so there won't be another update until at least Sunday.**

* * *

"Thanks, lads. We'll take it from here."

Will breathed a sigh of relief as the Russian released his hold on his arm, shook hands with the Englishman, and clambered back into his SUV. After a tense hour or so driving through London, taking turns seemingly at random, the Russians had dropped him off in front of a rather unremarkable looking house on a quiet street. Several broad-shouldered men in nondescript suits were standing in front of the house, and their leader, the one who had spoken, offered Will an easy smile.

"Come on then," the man said, gesturing towards the house. "Let's get you a cup of tea."

"Did Harry send you?" Will asked as he followed the man into the house. He supposed Harry had to have been behind all this; why else should he have been delivered into the hands of these clean-cut Englishmen? They didn't look like criminals; if anything, they looked a bit like the men who worked with Harry, with their neat haircuts and nondescript sort of faces.

"He did indeed," the Englishman said. "My name is John. Harry sent word that you're to stay here, just until the trouble dies down."

"And where is here, exactly?" Will asked. They'd made their way into the kitchen; the other men had left them, and John directed Will into a chair while he set about making them a cup of tea.

"MI-5 safe house," John answered. His reply was brief, and his tone brooked no argument.

Will nodded, and spoke no more. He took a moment to look around him, to examine the house in which he found himself. It was well-appointed; the furniture was heavy and wooden, and all of it matched. There were no photographs, and no television in the sitting room they'd bypassed on their way here. All in all it was comfortable, if utterly lacking in any sort of identifying feature. But John said it was a safe house, and safe it must be; Will never would have expected to find spies hiding out in such a place, and he hoped that no one else would look at it twice. He was grateful for the respite; for the first time in twenty-four hours, he actually felt safe. Here in this house, with MI-5 officers to watch over him, knowing that Harry had stepped in and rescued him from an uncertain fate, Will breathed a sigh of relief.

* * *

Mani's men bundled Harry into an echoing, empty room, threw him down on a rickety chair, and left him there alone. He took several deep, steadying breaths, trying not to think about how thirsty he was, or how hungry. It had been hours since he had been taken, first by Sarkisian, and then by Mani. He'd been dragged all over London, to Moscow-on-Thames, and then finally to this derelict warehouse, and he was dreadfully weary. He'd had no proper rest in days; first he had endured the Sugar Horse madness, and then Tiresias, and now he was here, about to face God only knew what sort of horror.

He was fairly certain he knew why Mani had taken him; Mani had been trying, very quietly, to get his hands on the uranium Harry had secreted away for years now. Though Mani had covered his tracks well, word of it had reached Harry's ears long ago, and he had often wondered when, or if, their paths might cross again.

He had the answer now. Mani and his men had faked his execution, no doubt with the intention of forwarding the video to Section D, and buying themselves some time to extract the information they so desperately wanted. Harry didn't fancy the notion of being tortured for the second time this week; he was already exhausted, already hungry, already thirsty, and already bleeding from several different wounds inflicted by his Russian captors. He knew he'd need to maintain a clear head, whatever Mani chose to throw at him; he could only hope that Lucas and Ros would see through the smokescreen, and find him in time. It was a weak hope, the thinnest thread, but it was all that held him together.

So Harry took deep breaths, and stretched his legs out in front of him, and waited for the worst.

* * *

Nearly a full day had passed, and no word came in from Harry. Will had not seen hide nor hair of the other men keeping watch over this house; he'd spent most of his time sitting quietly on the sofa while John paced nearby. The house had no telly, and no radio, but the bookshelves were well-stocked, and he tried to pass the hours with his nose buried in an old copy of _The Odyssey._ When darkness fell John made a rather spartan meal of pasta and a thin tomato sauce, and then ushered Will upstairs to a small room where a clean bed and a bathroom equipped with a pile of fluffy towels awaited him.

The morning brought with it no news, and no sign of Harry. John had taken several calls on his mobile, but each time he had walked into the expansive garden, and spoken in a voice too low for Will to hear.

 _What's taking him so long?_ Will wondered. When he first arrived, he assumed he'd only need to stay in this place for a few hours, but the longer he sat, the more anxious he became. What if John weren't telling him the truth? Though Will had asked, more than once, John had not allowed him to make a call to anyone, not even Harry, and he had staunchly refused to answer Will's questions regarding the Russians. Yes, John was certainly treating him better than the Russians had done, allowing him freedom of movement within the house and feeding him and speaking to him in a gentle, even tone of voice, but there was something hard about his face, as if he were the sort of man who was hiding a secret, and would do anything to keep it.

There was very little for Will to do, and he found that even his mother's favorite books weren't enough to distract him from the strangeness of his current situation. He thought about her as he lounged about the house; wondered where she was, wondered what she would make of his having been kidnapped by a group of mad Russians, wondered if all of this had something to do with her. Surely it must, he thought; why take him, otherwise? He was nobody, just a kid who worked in a bookshop.

 _A kid who spent Christmas in a house full of spooks,_ he reminded himself.

It was nearing lunchtime, and he was rummaging about in the kitchen cupboards trying to find something to eat that wasn't pasta, when he heard a commotion at the front door. Intrigued, he slipped into the front hall.

John was showing another man into the house. The newcomer was a tall man with dark hair and a kind, expressive face, carrying a small black holdall and looking around in confusion. "It's only temporary," John was saying. "Just until we get this mess sorted."

 _Poor sod,_ Will thought as he looked at the dark-haired man. This fellow didn't look like a spy; he looked bemused, and scared, rather like Will himself. Just another ordinary citizen, Will supposed, drawn into a world he could not comprehend. Will knew how that felt.

"Who is he?" The man asked, nodding towards Will. He had a slight accent; Greek, maybe? Will didn't have time to place it before John responded, and shattered his world.

"George, this is Will." As John spoke, the dark haired man – George – gave Will a brief nod of acknowledgment. John looked between them, and then smiled a strange, almost vicious sort of smile before he continued. "George," he said, "Will is your wife's son."

* * *

 _There is a woman, though, who also knows what I want. The one who was with you in Baghdad._

It had been hours, since Mani had spoken those words, and for all that time, Harry's heart had continuously pounded a desperate, broken rhythm in his chest. He was not the sort of man who prayed, not the sort of man who trusted in hope, but he would have gladly fallen to his knees and prayed to every god in every tongue, in that moment, if by so doing he could ensure Ruth's safety. For two long years Harry had dreamt of her, had fallen asleep to the sound of his own thoughts reminding him over and over again that she was safe, that she was well. The thought that Ruth, _his_ Ruth, that bright, brilliant, gentle woman, might be once more drawn into a web of violence and lies and horror, because of _him_ , because of who he was, because of the things he had done, was intolerable.

For a time he tried to convince himself that Mani was playing him, trying to use Ruth to get to him with no means of actually reaching her, but the longer he sat, the more his doubts grew.

Connie knew where she had gone. Connie, that traitorous, treacherous cow, had given the Russians a list of every MI-5 safe house, including the one where Will had been staying; could she have given them Ruth's location, as well? Could she have done such a thing, sold such a secret, betrayed someone she had never known, someone she had watched over from afar for two long decades? A week ago, he never would have believed such a thing was possible. Now, though, now that he knew the truth of who Connie had been, he was afraid.

And beneath that fear, another, more insidious emotion was brewing. Harry longed, in his heart, to see her again. He longed to see her face, to hear her voice, to find himself captured by the warmth of her ocean-blue eyes. No matter the unpleasantness of his circumstances, a small part of him wanted nothing more than to see her again. How could he even think such a thing, he wondered, berating himself for the flicker of hope that blossomed in his chest when he thought of how it might feel, to see her brought into this room with him.

So he sat, and waited, and warred with himself, warred with his fear and his hope and his desperate, ill-fated love of this woman, until the sound of the door creaking on its hinges broke him free of his reverie.

His heart, which before had been racing, seemed to stutter to a halt in his chest. His field of vision went blurry, as everything and everyone around him faded down to a single point.

She was here.

* * *

George stared at Will.

Will stared at George.

John laughed and walked away, whistling.

* * *

As they brought Ruth in and sat her down in the chair across from him, Harry struggled to keep his expression neutral. He couldn't help the slightest twitch at the corner of his mouth; he wasn't sure whether he wanted to smile, to reassure her, or whether he wanted to leap to his feet and do his best to beat Mani to a pulp with his bound hands.

She was lovely; she always had been. Her face was drawn, frightened but reserved, and as she looked at him, he felt the walls he'd built around his heart crumble away into nothingness. He had loved this woman, had loved her fiercely, loved her still. His love for her had kept him going, when the world around him shattered into chaos. His love for her had given him strength, when he stood alone in a room with Davie King, and murdered that man for her sake. His love for her had led him to nurturing her son, giving the lad a place to stay and an ear to listen, whenever he needed it. His love for her had given him the words to speak to young Wes Carter, when his own heart had failed him. That love was everything to him, and as he looked at her, he wondered how it was that he had survived so long on love alone, without her by his side.

"Friends, reunited," Mani said in a voice dripping with false camaraderie.

"What have you done with my husband?" Ruth asked.

It was no more than Harry expected, really. Connie had told him there was another man, a man who shared her bed, and though he had desperately clung to the hope that she was lying, he had known in his heart that Ruth was too lovely, too beautiful, to _special_ , to escape the notice of some kind-hearted man. What hurt him was not that Ruth had found someone else; what hurt him was that Ruth refused to look him in the eye, that the first words she spoke were not for his benefit, but for her own reassurance.

"Were you two just friends back then? There was an obvious connection and everybody else out there was at it like rabbits. Adrenaline, I suppose."

As Mani spoke, Ruth staunchly refused to look at Harry, her gaze focused on the floor. Harry found he could not take his eyes from her face. He drank her in, wondering what she was thinking, what she was feeling, how on earth he was going to get her out of this alive. If he did nothing else today, he was determined that he would ensure Ruth's safety. He owed her that much.

He felt strangely frozen, as if he'd been lifted out of his body, and was watching all of this unfolding from a distance. So many times he had dreamed of what he would do, what he would say, if only he were granted the chance to see her again. He had thought often of finding her in some sunny corner of the world, on some beach, on some back street in Paris, and thought of how it would feel to cross the space between them, to see her smile, to pull her into his arms, to kiss her. He had only kissed her twice before, and the memory of those two kisses cut him like knives, in that moment.

How did she feel, upon seeing him again? Had she longed for him, as he had for her? Had she thought about him, while she lay beneath her duvet in the darkness? He feared the answer to those questions. She would not look at him now, and he was afraid, deep in the darkest corner of his soul, that she had not thought of him at all. After all, how could he really expect someone like her, someone soft and gentle and hopeful, to love someone like him? It would seem that she had found love, had found someone she was not afraid of, someone whose gaze she could meet unreservedly, and married him instead.

The longer she sat in silence, staring at the floor, the more convinced Harry became that she had never truly loved him. Surely, if she had, she would be watching him now, as he was watching her. Surely she would be as hungry for him as he was for her. The wheels in his mind were turning so quickly he could hardly keep up with his own thoughts, racing ahead of him before he had a chance to consider all the evidence before him, conjuring pictures of this man, her husband, and the pair of them together.

"You two, though?" Mani continued, heedless of the turmoil that gripped Harry. "You know, it wouldn't surprise me if it was all quite chaste in a frightfully outdated, _Brief Encounter_ kind of way. "

At those words, Ruth lifted her gaze to his face, and all of his doubts vanished in an instant.

He saw in her eyes everything she felt for him, everything he felt for her, reflected back with a radiance that stunned him. Before she left him, they had developed a sort of silent means of communication, had learned the art of exchanging a thousand words with no more than a single glance. And when she looked at him now, he heard her voice, echoing in his mind like a tiny, tinkling bell.

For in her eyes he saw his own heartbreak. He saw his own memories, saw his own heart, saw his own hopes and his own desperate fears. Whatever she had done, whatever she had become, whoever she had wed, she was still his Ruth. And she knew it, as well as he.


	37. Chapter 37

Mani left them alone, and for a time they simply sat in silence, staring at one another. There was a tortured expression in Ruth's glorious eyes, a sorrow and a fear and a desperate longing that Harry understood all too well. He did not even dare to blink, caught in that moment with her, did not dare to close his eyes for even a second, lest he open them to find her gone, and himself alone once more. Had her hair always been that rich shade of mahogany? He wondered. Had the lines around her mouth always been so pronounced? Had her soft, luminous skin always been so tan? The image before him clashed with the vision of her he'd conjured over the last two years, his memories fading as he struggled to fill in the gaps. Her eyes, though, her eyes were as incandescent, as captivating as he remembered, and it was in those eyes he found the missing piece of his soul, the part of himself he thought he'd lost forever.

She took a single, ragged breath, and the stillness of the moment shattered, and Harry's heart with it. _What have you done with my husband?_ The words echoed louder than gunfire in that cavernous room. Where was he, this husband of hers? _Who_ was he? Though he could read in her gaze, in the continual twisting of her hands in her lap, in the turn of her mouth how much she felt for him, the question still remained: did she love her husband more? Was this man, this stranger, this fool who had known her so briefly, and almost certainly by a false name, worth more to her than him? Was her life with him worth more than the heartache and uncertainty that were all Harry could offer her?

"You got married out there," he said softly. In his heart, Harry knew it was cruel to give voice to such a thought. They were held hostage, bound together in some godforsaken warehouse, on the verge of an unspeakable, unpredictable horror, and now was not the time to press her for details, to demand that she speak the truth of her heart to him. Still, though, he found he could not hold his tongue. He had to know, needed to know, needed to hear the words falling from her lips more than he needed his next breath.

She took a moment to respond; it seemed to him that speaking of the man she loved ought to give her some sort of hope, some sort of goodness to cling to in this sea of madness, but he saw no joy in her when she spoke of him. He saw only doubt, and fear; fear of what, he couldn't be sure.

"George is a doctor at the local hospital where I worked for a while." As she spoke she dropped her gaze from his face. _Why?_ He wondered. _Why look away now?_ Why sever that connection, when before they had shared so freely with one another? Why did she appear almost ashamed to speak of this man, this George? On paper, she had not betrayed Harry; she'd been living in another country, under another name, and they were nothing to one another. They'd shared one dinner, and two painfully brief kisses; hardly the stuff of a committed, monogamous relationship. She had been free to give her heart as she chose. Why then did Harry feel as if she were admitting to having an affair? Why did she look as if she felt the same?

"Worked?" he asked her. It was the past tense that caught his attention; had she left the hospital? If so, why? And what the hell had she been doing there? Harry knew Ruth had no medical training, beyond the basic first aid required of all MI-5 employees, but he imagined that, given everything he knew about her, she could do just about anything she set her mind to. She had a gentle heart, a compassionate heart, and he thought she would have made a fine nurse.

"Clerical work," she said, and he knew by the self-deprecating tone of her voice that she had read his very thoughts, and understood that he believed such an occupation to be beneath her. In truth, Ruth possessed one of the single most brilliant, fascinating minds he had ever encountered. She had overcome hardship and poverty, worked her way through university, and become one of the most esteemed analysts in MI-5 history. She spoke a half a dozen languages, possessed an almost encyclopedic knowledge of ancient history, and she utilized all of her boundless intelligence as an artist would use paint, piecing together the most intricate mysteries with verve and humility. What possible satisfaction could clerical work offer a mind like that?

"You were made for more than that, Ruth," he told her softly, hoping that she would hear in those words the truth his heart longed to shout. That she would hear him telling her softly, gently, that she was made of steel and dreams, that she was meant for more than the drudgery of record keeping, that she was born to be a legend.

She did not hear him, though.

"I loved it," she said with a stubborn tilt of her jaw, her eyes boring into his defensively, almost accusingly. He realized his mistake too late; he had meant to encourage her, not to demean the choices she had made. But Ruth was a woman who had spent her entire life defending herself, fighting back against those who had cast dispersions upon her and her abilities, and she was continuing that fight now.

"I did my job correctly," she continued in that same fierce tone of voice. "And when it was finished I went to the market, or swimming. It was simple. Everything about my life was simple and… _elegant_ , for once."

As she spoke his mind conjured the image of her walking through a market, laughing with her friends, conversing with the locals in a tongue he could not understand. The vision of her in a bathing suit, skin tanned, muscles toned, diving beneath the waves of some impossibly blue sea was nearly enough to make him weep with longing; he wished, very much, that he had been given the chance to see her thus. To see her unencumbered, free from worry, free from pain, joyous and soft and brilliantly, beautifully alive. The woman who sat before him now seemed so incongruous with the one she was describing; the Ruth trapped in this room with him was hard, and resolute, and standing firm beneath the endless weight of grief and fear that was her life in London. He heard in her words an accusation of sorts; _everything about my life was simple, and elegant, for once_ , as if it hadn't been before. She spoke those words in a cutting tone of voice, as if her grief, her pain, the sheer complexity of her life were _his_ fault. Which, in a way, he supposed it was. He was the one who had complicated matters, who had drawn her into his web of secrets, who had given the orders that killed her friends, who had pushed her farther than she ever dared go on her own.

"And George?" he asked. _Damn you, Harry Pearce,_ he thought as he watched the emotion swirling in her eyes. Once again, he had pushed too hard, had been unable to stop himself from demanding more of her than she was willing to give. He had to know, though. She told him she had loved her life; did she love this man, this George, as well? _Do you love him more than me?_

For a long moment she simply gazed at him, blinking back tears that sparkled in her eyes, causing them to shine like diamonds in the late afternoon sunlight streaming in through the windows beside them.

 _There's something I have to tell you. I should have told you years ago._

 _Harry, please, don't._

Those words would always lie between them, that _something wonderful that was never said,_ and in the silence that followed his question, those words were the only sound that he could hear. _I love you. I loved you then, I love you still. I love you._

"He's a good and kind man, Harry." As she spoke she dropped her gaze down to her fidgeting hands, her cheeks coloring with some emotion he could not name. But she had not said those words, had not answered his question, not truly. Her response was an evasion, no more, no less, and Harry wasn't sure what to make of it. He wasn't sure that now was the time to question her, now, when they were trapped in this room, with death lingering just outside the door. They were almost certainly being observed, and she knew it as well as he; perhaps it was that knowledge, coupled with her almost obsessive need for privacy, that stayed her tongue.

"Do you love him?" Harry hated himself for asking. He hated himself for his utter lack of self-restraint where she was concerned. He hated the vulnerability she inspired in him, but he could not die today without knowing the truth. If this was to be his last day on earth, he did not want to die wondering. For her part, Ruth looked as if she were about to weep, as if she wanted to be anywhere in the world but there in that room with him. _Tell me, please, for the love of God, tell me I have not given my heart, my very soul, to a woman who loves another._

"I feel…very guilty." Her voice was strained, her posture tense, her brow furrowed, her gaze darting here and there about the room. He knew she felt guilty; he could read that much in her expression. But for what? Guilty for sleeping with George, and never with him? Guilty for dragging George into the chaos that was her life?

"That wasn't my question," Harry said, a sense of urgency rising within him, causing his heart to beat faster and faster inside his chest. "Ruth-"

"He doesn't deserve to be in danger and I'm not going to start discussing my feelings about him."

Behind the door opened, and dread rose like bile in the back of Harry's throat.

"With you," she added softly.

* * *

"Erm, would you like a cup of tea, then?" Will asked, scratching the toes of his socks anxiously against the floorboards.

George stared at him as if he were an alien, confusion and anger written in every line of his too-handsome face.

 _So this man married my mum,_ Will thought in a daze, his feet carrying him back to the kitchen as if on autopilot. For the last two years, Will had gotten to know a man his mother cared for, a man who cared for her, and he'd done a lot of thinking about who his mum was as a person, rather than just his parent. Harry had been a shock to him at first, with his receding hairline and his boxer's hands and his impossibly demanding job, but Will had come to terms with it. He had seen what sort of a man Harry was, had experienced firsthand the strength, the tenderness that lay beneath his surface, and in his mind Harry and Ruth had become inextricably linked. To be so suddenly faced with another man – _oh Christ, this bloke is my bloody step-father,_ he realized – left him feeling rather uncomfortable, to say the least.

"She never told me she had a son," George admitted from the kitchen doorway. He'd come to a stop there, still clutching his holdall, still staring at Will in utter disbelief. _Join the bloody club, mate,_ Will thought, but he held his tongue.

"She never told me about any of this," George continued. He was staring around the room in disbelief, his eyes continually seeking out Will's face. _What do you see, George?_ He wondered. _Do you see the truth? Do you see that you never really knew her? Not as I do? Not as Harry does?_ This man might have been her husband, but Will couldn't help but feel resentment towards him. He had harbored a dream for two long years now, a dream of seeing his mother returned to him, of seeing Harry smile, of finally feeling as if he were part of a family, and this man had not part to play in that dream.

"She didn't have a choice," Will said defensively. That was something else he'd learned, over the last two years. He'd learned just what her job had demanded from her, just what sort of sacrifices she and her compatriots at Five had been called upon to make, and he felt a fierce sort of pride for her, for what she'd done, what she'd been able to accomplish. George might be her husband, but Will was her son, and he was damned if he was going to let this man stand in this kitchen and pass judgment on her.

"So I've been told," George said softly.

Will continued to make the tea, casting surreptitious glances over his shoulder at George all the while. The time was coming, he was certain, when George would press for more. Would demand to know how old he was, add it all up, and express his disbelief. It had happened often enough, over the course of Will's young life; he knew how their situation appeared to outsiders, and he had no desire to explain himself, or his mother, or his father, or any of it, to this man.

"Do you know where she is?" George asked after a time.

Will shrugged his shoulders, but then he nearly dropped the mug of tea he was holding as a sudden realization struck him square in the chest. He spun on his heel, his heart hammering, and spoke.

"Why are you here? What's happened?" He'd been so taken aback by George's sudden appearance that he hadn't given himself a moment to consider the implications of it. If her husband were here, in England, surely that meant that Ruth was, too. _Will I see her?_ he wondered as a desperate hope took root deep in his heart. _Is it over? Will she finally come home? Christ, what will Harry say when he finds out about this?_

"I don't know!" George burst out angrily. "Men with guns, they came to our house, she said we had to leave, we came here, she tells me nothing, they took her away, and now I'm here." It was apparent, from his tone, from his expression, from the sheer fury radiating from his dark eyes that George had passed beyond mere frustration into the realm of outrage. Will felt no particular sympathy for him, though he supposed he ought to have done; they were both caught up in events beyond their control, and they were both worried for Ruth's safety.

"Let's sit in the garden," Will said in an even tone of voice. He was quite proud of that, actually; he wanted nothing more than to answer this George with derision but his mother, and indeed Harry, had taught him better than that. "It's a beautiful day. I'll tell you what I know." _And you're going to answer my bloody questions,_ he added to himself.

George's shoulders slumped in a defeated sort of way, but he nodded his assent, and together they trooped out into the garden, and took their tea sitting on little wooden chairs, staring out at the trees. Unnoticed by the pair of them, John and two of his men slipped through the kitchen door, and stood there watchfully, blocking any means of escape for either of them.


	38. Chapter 38

_This isn't happening,_ Ruth thought as she sat, staring at Harry, trying valiantly not to cry. _Do you love him?_ How could he ask her that, here, now? How could she possibly answer him? How could she say _I love that he makes me feel safe, and I hate that he's not you?_

It had been two long years since she'd last seen this man, since she'd held his face in her hands and kissed him with everything she had. Two long years since he had tried, in his own tender way, to tell her that he loved her. She had her reasons for cutting short his declaration there on the docks; it was hard enough to go, to leave her whole life behind, but if he had said those words, if he had looked at her with those soft brown eyes and whispered that he loved her, she knew her heart would not allow her to leave. It was already an impossible decision; leave, and lose her son, lose Harry, but keep them safe, or stay, and doom them both. For she truly believed that what she had done was to protect them. With the evidence they had doctored Harry was above recrimination, and his position in MI-5 was safe. With Ruth gone, no one would go looking for her son, and Zaf had promised to take care of her boy. It was scant comfort, during those nights she'd spent alone and on the run, but it was the only thought that kept her going. _I did it for them,_ she thought morosely, staring into the weathered lines of Harry's dear, sweet face.

 _He looks so tired._

And he did; he looked worn down, more weary than she had ever seen him. There was blood on his shirt, and her heart constricted at the sight, as she wondered what sort of trials he had already been through here in this dreadful room. He slumped in his chair, leaning forward, towards her, his whole face radiating with his love for her. It oozed out of his every pore, shone through in his every word.

 _Did you love him?_

 _God damn you, Harry._

George was a good man, a kind man, and she told Harry so, but there was so much more she longed to say. She longed to say that George was a man who believed in moral absolutes, who had never been forced to make the kinds of choices that ended people's lives, who did not know that some secrets were meant to be kept. She longed to tell Harry that George was not a man who knew her, who could ever know her, not the way Harry did. She longed to tell Harry that when George kissed her, it was all she could do not to pull away, for wishing it was Harry instead. She longed to rise from her chair, and fling her arms around his neck, to bury her face in the crook of his shoulder and weep.

Now was not the time for such indulgences though, she knew.

Mani had to have a plan, and she was certain that she knew what it might be. Mani wanted the uranium, and only she and Harry knew where it was. That she was dear to Harry was no secret; he had very nearly gone to prison in an effort to save her. Mani would watch, and wait, and when the time came, she had no doubts that he would turn his sights on her. Here in this broken, shattered room, he would do his best to hurt her, to try to coax Harry into ending her pain, and delivering the uranium.

That had to be avoided at all costs.

 _I can be brave for him,_ she thought, though her whole body was trembling. She would be brave, she would be strong, she would not cry out, when Mani hurt her; she would do this for Harry. Ruth couldn't bear it, if Harry should hand over the uranium for her sake; how many thousands of people would die, if Mani had his way? Surely the cost of their lives outweighed hers. She was nothing, just a burned out spook; she could make that sacrifice, for Harry's sake, for her own, for the sake of the entire world. She could be brave, just as she knew Harry would be. She would make him proud.

For a moment Will's face swam before her eyes, but if anything, the thought of her son only strengthened her resolve. She wasn't sure if Zaf had told him the truth, told him that his mother was still alive and well, but even if he had, Will had already spent two years learning to live without her. The need to see him manifested itself as a physical ache in her chest; was his hair still ridiculously long? Had he graduated from university? Was he happy, was he well, did he know how very much she loved him? She told herself he did, he must know; she had given up everything for him, the moment he was born, and she had no regrets.

 _Be brave for Will,_ she told herself. _Be brave. He doesn't need to know that his mother died screaming. He only needs to know that you died to keep him, and thousands of other people's children, safe from harm._

Behind her Mani and his goons entered the room, and at the sound of the door creaking on its hinges, her heart seemed to freeze in her chest. _Be brave,_ she thought, keeping her eyes focused on Harry's face. She drew strength from the sight of him, remembering all the many nights when she had sat at her desk in the semi-darkness of the Grid, gazing at him through the windows of his office, feeling the weight of his eyes on hers when she wasn't looking. Though she had been nearly struck dumb by terror from the moment she entered this room, she found comfort in sitting here with Harry now. This was as it should be, she thought; _if I am to die, let his face be the last thing I see. Let me die on British soil. Let me die at the hands of people who know my bloody name. Let me die for something that matters._

"Ok, time to get serious now," Mani said as he approached them. "Where is the uranium?"

"Don't you hurt her, don't you dare to hurt her!" Harry roared, leaping to his feet.

Ruth flinched at the sheer fury in his voice, keeping her head down, trying to block out her own panic. _Dear Harry,_ she thought sadly. Even now, when he must surely know as well as she what was coming, he was thinking only of protecting her. It was very nearly suicidal, throwing himself at Mani like that when his own hands were bound and Mani and each of his men were armed to the teeth, but still, Harry couldn't seem to control himself. He never could, where she was concerned; Harry had never held himself back from her. A brush of the shoulder here, a whispered word of comfort there, a tender gaze held too long, a sweet, staggering confession of desire during one beautiful dinner, a kiss so fervent and ripe with longing that the mere memory of it was enough to take her breath away; Harry had given her everything, all of himself. It was Ruth who held back, before, but she was determined not to do that now. If he would only look at her, she was determined to show him just how much he meant to her. They had learned long ago how to speak with just a gaze, and silently she begged him now. _Look at me, Harry. Look at me, and know how much I love you, how much I have longed for you._

"Calm down, Harry," Mani said dismissively, shoving Harry back into his chair. "No need to go all Shakespearean on us."

As Harry settled back into his chair with a mutinous expression on his face, Ruth's attention was drawn to the small table beside her, where one of Mani's men was setting up a laptop.

Ruth watched in confusion as the video feed resolved itself, and then felt her heart rising into her throat. The air had been stolen from her lungs, the room seemed to shrink around her, and she found she could not move, could not think, could not even blink.

Through the grainy video feed Ruth could clearly see George and Will, sitting together in a garden, sipping tea.

 _Oh Christ no, not Will, not my son, not my son, not my son…_

"They think they are in a nice safe house with a garden, and that the men with guns are looking after them."

Ruth tore her eyes away from the screen to stare at Mani in sheer terror. He spoke in a calm, soothing sort of voice, his face a picture of self-satisfaction. "Which of course they are, for the time being," he continued.

Every promise Ruth had made to herself, about being brave, about doing whatever it took to keep the uranium away from Mani, had vanished the moment she saw her son's face. For more than two decades she had done everything she could to protect that sweet boy, _her_ sweet boy; she had slept on a sofa and skipped more meals than she cared to count and missed more sleep than she could ever recover, had moved house and juggled bills and work and homework until she could do no more than collapse in her shower and weep from sheer exhaustion, and she had done it all for Will. This man, this terrible, ruthless, heartless, _evil_ man, was asking her to choose between her son, and the lives of thousands of strangers.

How could she make such a choice? Her own life was hers to sacrifice as she chose, but Will's? _Mani has won,_ she realized as she stared at him. _He's won, and he knows it._

"Please, don't do anything to them," she said softly, knowing it was useless, knowing how pathetic she must sound, but still finding it impossible to hold her tongue.

"If you cooperate with me," Mani continued in that same reasonable tone of voice, "then I shall have no need to do so."

For the first time since the video had started to run, Ruth dared to look at Harry. _What must he think of me?_ She wondered. Harry was a smart man, he must know that the man on the video feed was her husband. But what did he think about Will? How could she tell him, how could she communicate to him that this boy with his shaggy hair and his gentle smile was more important to her than anything else in the world?

Ruth had wondered, over the years, how she would finally tell Harry the truth about her son. So many nights she had found herself lying in bed, having an imaginary conversation with him, one in which she quietly explained the trauma of her son's conception, and the joy that he had brought her. So many times she had gone over and over the words that she would say, to make Harry understand why she had kept this secret from him, but she had never found the courage to face those conversations in her waking life. Never once, in all her imaginings, had it ever been anything like this.

As she stared at him, Harry's lip twitched, just the faintest indication of the turmoil she was certain that he must be feeling. There was no surprise in his eyes, no question, and that alarmed her. _Do you not even want to know, Harry?_ She wondered. _Do you not want to know that this is my son you will condemn to die?_

He gave a slight shake of his head, and she choked back a single, ragged sob, turning her eyes once more to the monitor, and the picture of her son, and George, having tea in a garden. They looked happy, and well; though there was no sound, Ruth could see that they were speaking to one another. She wondered what they must be saying; _Christ, what must George think of me now?_ The last time they had spoken George had stared at her with revulsion, had been furious that she had dared to leave him, that she was withholding so much from him, and at that time he hadn't even known the truth of her son. How did that introduction go? She wondered. Would George even want to see her again, after all of this madness?

 _I don't care if he gets on a plane to Cyprus this afternoon and never speaks to me again, so long as he doesn't die for me today._

"How nice," Mani crooned, leaning down so that his face was on a level with Ruth's. She recoiled from his closeness; she did not want this monster anywhere near her. "A bit of father-son bonding." He was smiling as he watched George and Will chatting on the monitor.

She chanced a glance at Harry's face, and what she saw there troubled her greatly. There was a tortured sort of expression, written in all the lines of his face; anger, and fear, and something else, something that looked very much like self-loathing. _Please, no, Harry, it isn't like that,_ she wanted to shout. If she were to choose anyone to be a father to her son, it would not be George, George who was so gentle and yet cast judgment so readily on those who do not see the world exactly as he did. If she were to choose a father for her son, it would have been Harry; brave, and strong, a shield in the darkness, a hope for her to cling to.

"See, there's no need for torture," Mani said.

"You think this isn't torture?" she snapped back. It was the worst sort of torture, she thought, sitting here, waiting for something terrible to happen to her child, her only child, with no means of stopping it, save to do the unthinkable.

"One of my men will first shoot your husband-" at those words, hysteria wound its way around her heart, and she began to tremble from head to toe like a leaf caught in a storm- "and then your son if you do not tell me where the uranium is."

"Please, I'm begging you," she cried, tears spilling from her eyes unbidden. _No, not like this, you were supposed to be brave,_ she wanted to shout at herself. She was ashamed of her own lack of resolve, and more frightened than she had ever been in her life.

"Tell me where the uranium is." Mani was staring up at her from his position on the floor, his dark eyes boring into hers.

 _I can't, I can't, they don't deserve this, please…_

"She doesn't know," Harry cut in, and for a moment, Ruth found she could breathe again. For just one moment, she remembered that he was here with her, that if anyone could get them out of this, it was Harry. _Please, Harry, please have a plan._

"We'll see," Mani did not take his eyes from her face, and her terror returned in full.

 _Not my son, please, Harry, not my son. Anything but that. Anything but him._

"I'm telling you, you're wasting your time," Harry insisted.

There was something about his voice, something certain and emphatic, something that tugged at the back of Ruth's mind, but the panic had set in now. She was only a desk spook, she hadn't had the requisite training to withstand this sort of torture, and she had been out of the game for two long years. Though she dearly wanted to, she found she could not focus on anything but her son's face, and the sheer dread that gripped her at the thought that Mani might hurt him, when she could so easily put a stop to it.

"She doesn't know where it is-"

"Tell me, Ruth."

"She only thinks she knows where it is-"

"Your husband and your son are about to die."

Their words flew through the air thick and fast, and the sense of urgency they instilled in her only caused her terror to rise to a crescendo. There wasn't time to think, there wasn't time to breathe. She had to make a choice, now. She could choose to save George and Will, or she could doom them both. She could choose to let loose a weapon of destruction and chaos on some as yet-unknown corner of the world, or she could save the lives of the people she loved most, Harry included. There was no choice, really.

She took a deep breath.

"I'm sorry, Harry, I can't," she told him a pleading tone of voice. _Forgive me, Harry._

He looked away from her then, pain and doubt etched into his face. Disappointment came rolling off of him in waves, but she had made her choice. She would choose her son. She would _always_ choose her son.

"It's in Norfolk," she said at last. Harry's shoulders slumped, defeated. "An abandoned nuclear shelter from the Cold War years." With those words, she found her breath coming a little easier. It had been done. She had sacrificed a piece of her soul, had committed a sin that would haunt her all the rest of the days, but she had saved her son, and in that moment, she took solace in that fact.

Mani smiled, and rose to his feet.

Ruth looked at Harry, her eyes glassy with tears.

 _I'm sorry, I've let you down, and I'm so sorry. Harry, I'm so sorry,_ she thought.

She tried to force herself to focus on what would happen next. Maybe they could get the uranium back; Ros and Lucas knew what Mani was after and they were out there, somewhere, cooking up a plan. Maybe there was some way through this madness; Ruth didn't know, but she had to cling to hope. She had saved her son; the rest they could worry about later.

Harry staunchly refused to meet her gaze, and she felt the fear begin to rise in her chest again.

 _She only thinks she knows where it is._

In the clarity that followed her decision, Ruth had a moment, only the length of a single heartbeat, to consider Harry's words, and the truth came crashing down around her. Even before Mani spoke, she knew.

Harry had moved the uranium.

 _Oh, Harry, what have you done?_

"Oh dear, Harry," Mani said softly, retrieving his mobile from his pocket to make a call.

"Take the boy inside," Mani said, and Ruth breathed a sigh of relief. Even if Harry _had_ moved the uranium, which she now suspected he had, at least Will was safe. They could bide their time, while Mani sent his people to Norfolk, give Ros and Lucas a chance to find them, to put a stop to this. _It's all right, it's all going to be all right,_ she told herself. There was a small part of her that knew better, but still, she clung to hope. Hope was all she had. She could not speak to Harry, could not even touch him; she had to hope.

Ruth watched, captivated, as one of the guards at the house stepped in to view, and beckoned to Will. She took a deep, steadying breath as she watched Will turn and walk into the house, away from the garden. For years she had been a spy, immersed in this world of violence and lies, and she knew how the game was played. If Mani were going to kill either of them, he'd do it outside, where the evidence could be quickly and efficiently hidden. He would do it in full view of the camera, so he could revel in Ruth's pain. Will was going inside; Will was safe. In his absence George rose to his feet and walked out across the lawn, scuffing the grass with the toes of his shoes.

In that moment she turned to Harry, with the thought that she would apologize to him, reach out to him in some way, but the expression on his face stopped her dead. He looked… _terrified_.

With a heavy heart she turned her gaze back to the monitor, watching George pacing through the garden. _Why does Harry look so frightened? What could possibly be enough to scare him?_

"Now, kill the man," Mani said.

The words set off a roaring in her mind.

"No! No! What are you doing?" she demanded, her voice high-pitched and brittle to her own ears. She leapt to her feet, giving no thought to her own safety. "I told you everything you wanted to know! Please," she begged. _Please, not George, he's a good man, he's nothing to do with this, please don't let him die because of me._

On the monitor she could see George, standing with his back to the camera. Could see a man walk up behind him, gun in hand, and fire a single shot. Could see the blood spraying from his head, could see him collapse onto his knees, and then crumple face-first into the grass.

In that moment, the only sound that Ruth could hear was her own screams.

* * *

 **A/N: Please don't hate me for leaving it there! I will try to get the next chapter written and uploaded tomorrow night.**


	39. Chapter 39

"Where did you meet her?" Will asked. They had passed the last few moments in the most painfully awkward sort of silence, sipping their tea and staring determinedly ahead, neither one of them willing to face the other. To Will's mind this was perhaps the strangest conversation he had ever had, stranger even than the night he first met Harry, when he'd been drunk and confused and devastated and Zaf had come stumbling into the mix as well. He'd understood then why those men were in his house, even if didn't yet know exactly who they were. This time, though, sitting here with George, he had no such reassurance.

 _She married this bloke,_ Will thought in a daze, casting a surreptitious look at George over the rim of his mug. Alone for the first time in her adult life, Ruth had gone out and married this man, this stranger, this man with his dark eyes and his soft voice. It seemed so wrong, somehow, that she should have found it so easy to move on, to forge a new life for herself. _Maybe that's what she always wanted,_ Will thought morosely. Maybe she had always wanted to settle down with some nice bloke, someone who didn't care – or didn't know – that she had a child. Maybe what Ruth longed for, more than anything else, was a chance to be free, to be her own person, not just his mum. Maybe she thought she'd be safer, settled down and married to this man. Whatever her reasons, Will still couldn't seem to wrap his head around this latest development.

"Polis, on Cyprus. I am a doctor at the hospital and Ruth – your mother," he added, turning his bemused gaze to Will's face, "she worked there as well."

Will nodded. _Cyprus._ It certainly wasn't what he expected, but then again, he supposed that was the point. Ruth had fled her home in search of anonymity and a fresh start, and though George's sudden appearance in his life troubled him greatly, Will could not begrudge her whatever piece of happiness she'd managed to find for herself.

"I knew there were things she was not telling me," George continued in a pensive tone of voice. If anything, Will got the feeling that George wasn't speaking to him at all, but rather holding a conversation entirely with himself. "We aren't properly married, you see. She wouldn't agree to a ceremony. And she wouldn't agree to…." His voice trailed off, and Will shifted uncomfortably in his seat. However George had intended to end that sentence, Will was fairly certain that he didn't actually want to hear it.

"Where is your father?" George asked him.

"Dead," Will answered, dropping his eyes down to his tea, not wanting to face this man, not wanting to face his father, not wanting to face any of it. _I just want to go home. And I want to see my mum. And Harry, Christ, I want to talk to Harry._

George nodded. "So she was telling the truth about that, at least," he said.

A blinding headache had begun to build behind Will's eyes; he was tired, and stressed, and the confusion that filled him with each word George spoke only served to strengthen the pounding in his head.

"About what?" he asked dully.

"I had to ask, many times, before she would have dinner with me. She told me her husband had died, that she missed him. I heard her crying in the night, once or twice. She would go to the bathroom, trying to be quiet, but I heard her."

Will's heart constricted painfully at the thought of his mother, cold and lonely and grieving for all that she left behind. _Was she crying for me?_ he wondered. _Was she crying for Harry?_ It didn't bear thinking about, and beneath his heartache Will felt a seed of anger begin to grow. He was tired of feeling his way through the darkness, tired of being denied the truth, by Harry, by John and his men, by his own mum. He had been scared, when the Russians took him, but now that fear had turned to a quiet rage.

"If you heard her, why didn't you try to talk to her? To help her? How could you just leave her there alone?" he demanded. _What sort of man,_ he wondered, _hears a woman crying, and does not try to comfort her?_

"It was not me she wanted," George told him sadly. There was an understanding in this man's eyes; he knew, Will realized. He knew that Ruth was not his, that she never had been. It was none of his business, he knew; she had always valued her privacy, and whatever she chose to do in her private life, in her personal relationships, was not her son's concern. He had hoped, had dreamed, that she had been happy, wherever she was, but he was beginning to realize that it wasn't quite that simple.

"Will!" John's voice rang out sharply, and the young man spun in his seat to face him. "Come inside, will you? I need to talk to you about something."

As he rose to his feet, Will felt his heart hammering inside his chest. _This is it,_ he thought. Surely John had news of his mum, or of Harry. Surely he was finally going to learn what this was all about.

Without a single glance back, Will left George alone in the sunlit garden, and trudged obediently up the path and into the house.

* * *

"We've got surveillance up on the house but we can only hear the boy. It's like he's there on his own."

This discovery had terrified Malcolm, when he realized that the only voice he could distinguish on the surveillance belonged to Will. The rest of the team had bought the lie that Harry had sold them at Christmas, that Will was his nephew, and they had assumed that Hillier and his cronies had taken Will hostage as a means to play on Harry's emotions. Threaten Ruth's husband, threaten Harry's nephew, and hope that one of them would break under the pressure. Malcolm knew better, though. He knew that Will was Ruth's son, and he could not bear the thought of something terrible happening to the young man. Ruth had been a dear friend to him, and she had sacrificed so much; he simply could not sit idly by while another blow was dealt to her. Her husband, George, had been sitting in the garden having tea with Will, but for the last twenty minutes there had been nothing but silence from the garden, and no sign of George in the house. Each new explanation that Malcolm conjured for this turn of events was more horrific than the last; _perhaps I am too late to save her husband,_ he thought, _but I can still save her son._

He had been so incredibly pleased to see her, in that dingy little flat. She was sad, and scared, and perhaps a bit harder than he recalled, but she was still Ruth. Ruth, who had always treated him so gently, and never teased him as the others did. Ruth, who had for so many years quietly pined for Harry, only to have their blossoming relationship shattered by vile gossip. Even now, all these years later, Malcolm felt a twinge of guilt over the role he had played in that turn of events. He had longed to find some way to make it up to her, and now that the opportunity had presented itself, he was determined not to fail her.

"Keep monitoring it," Lucas said dismissively. It was clear that Lucas wasn't particularly concerned about George, or Will for that matter, and Malcolm felt something deep inside him break at that realization. He had never considered himself to be a very brave man; bookish and asthmatic, he much preferred computers to people, and he spent most of his life trying to avoid trouble, in whatever form it took. For the last thirty years he had served his country dutifully, had followed orders, however distasteful he found them. Defying authority simply wasn't part of his structural makeup, but in this moment, he found that rebellion was festering in his heart. _Have we all lost our sense of compassion?_

"But he's alone," Malcolm insisted. "What have they done to Ruth's husband?"

 _Why can't you see? This is important, damn you!_

"I don't know Malcolm, but we can't go in just yet. We have to get to McCall first; he's the only link we have to Harry and Ruth now."

In that moment, Malcolm made a decision. It was, without a doubt, the single most rash, most daring thing he had ever done in all his life.

Someone had to save Ruth's son, and since no one else was volunteering, he took it upon himself. He was going to that safehouse, and he was damned if he was going to let Lucas North stop him.

* * *

Harry had kicked the laptop out of sheer impotent rage, but he was grateful for his own impulsivity, just now. It had bought them a few more minutes, while Mani tried to rustle up a new laptop. Ruth was still weeping quietly, her face buried in her hands, her shoulders shaking. There was nothing in the world he wanted more than to reach out to her, to hold her, but he wasn't sure how such a gesture would be received, right now, and besides, such a display might only prompt Mani to turn his violent intentions on her, instead of Will. That had to be avoided at all costs. Harry didn't know what he might do, if Mani hurt her.

When Mani had first shown them the video of George and Will, Harry had immediately set to work on a plan. He had no resources, and no time to communicate his intentions to Ruth, and before he knew what was happening the situation had escalated out of his control. Ruth had taken the initiative, had shattered beneath the weight of her fear for her son, and he could not blame her for that. As she spoke he sat quietly, waiting to see how it would play out. For a moment, just a moment, he had hoped that Mani would believe Ruth, when she said the uranium was Norfolk; he had hoped it would buy them just enough time for Ros and Lucas to find them.

He was wrong. He was wrong, and Ruth's husband had died as a result of his miscalculation.

"Ruth, listen to me," he whispered urgently.

Her gaze snapped up to his face, her eyes shining with tears, her fear and her anger and her sorrow rolling off of her in waves. Even now, in the midst of all this pain, he thought she was quite the loveliest woman he had ever seen. Whatever had happened to her out there, whatever choices she had made, she was still Ruth. Somewhere inside her a born spook lurked, and it was to that facet of her personality that he appealed now.

"I have a plan," he said, speaking in a low voice and scuffing his shoes across the floor in hopes of masking the sound. "I need you to trust me. Can you do that? Can you trust me?"

She took a deep, ragged breath. "He's my son, Harry," she said in a broken voice.

It hit him then; she didn't know anything about the relationship that had developed between Will and Harry over the last two years. She didn't know that Harry knew her son, that he loved him like his own child, that he would rather die himself than see any harm come to that kind young man. What must that confession have cost her? He wondered. She had tried for so long to keep Will a secret, and now she was revealing this piece of herself to him, in a moment of pain and horror.

"I know," Harry told her gently. "I know, and I promise, I will do everything I can to make sure that no harm comes to Will."

At the sound of Will's name falling from Harry's lips her eyes widened in shock, and he could clearly read the questions written all over her face.

"I'll explain everything later. Just please, _please_ , trust me."

"With my life, Harry," she whispered, as the door behind her opened and Mani re-entered the room, laptop in hand.

Once the video feed was live again, Mani turned his attentions on them once more. With a look of vicious determination on his face, Mani began to speak. "You have until the count of ten, and then I kill the boy," he said.

Harry said nothing, and across from him Ruth wrapped her arms around her middle, rocking back and forth on her chair, her eyes round and filled with horror.

"One," Mani said.

Harry said nothing.

"Two –"

"You'd really kill her child?" Harry asked in what he hopped was an incredulous tone of voice. He knew the answer before Mani even spoke.

"Of course I would. Our children are the first casualties of every conflict," Mani said with all the conviction of a zealot. "Three –"

"Harry!" Ruth wailed, seemingly unable to control herself. _Please, Ruth, please, trust me. I will save him, I will. I have to._

"Four. He doesn't know his step-father's dead yet, of course. We'll bury them together, though."

"Harry." This time, the word left Ruth's lips as a desperate gasp. On the monitor beside him, he could clearly see Will wandering around the garden, kicking a football against the fence as he went.

"I can't," he told her. _The Irish could have learned something from this bastard,_ Harry thought grimly. No pain he had ever felt compared to this, to sitting across from the woman he loved, watching as she lost all faith in him, as she began to believe that he would really let her son die. _Please tell me you're just playing a part, Ruth. Please trust me._

"Please!" she begged him, tears rolling down her cheeks.

"Five-"

"It will be used to build a dirty bomb. It could kill thousands of children." It was a fine line to walk; he needed to convince Mani that his resolve was slowly weakening, that Ruth's pleas were getting to him. The longer it took for this to play out, the better. He would run it down to the wire, and pray for a miracle.

"But I can only see mine in front of me." The sheer devastation in Ruth's voice nearly shattered his heart in that moment. She was weeping, her lower lip trembling, begging him, and everything in him wanted to give in, to end this charade, to finally bring her peace.

Still, though, he played for time.

"I can't tell him."

"Listen to her, Harry," Mani crooned, "listen to the voice of compassion."

"You know nothing about compassion," Harry spat back.

It was clear Mani was losing patience, as the speed of his count increased.

"Six, seven, eight, nine –"

"Please, don't kill him!" Ruth screamed, and then she turned the full force of her pleading eyes on Harry. "If you have any feelings at all, if you have any feelings for me," she said, her tears choking her, making it impossible for her to continue. _Oh, Ruth, my Ruth, if only you knew…_

"Ten."

 _Here we go._

"Harry!" she screamed.

"All right –"

"Stop!" Harry shouted.

Across from him, Ruth breathed a sigh of relief. Mani smiled, and closed his mobile.

"If you kill the boy, then he's of no further use to you. And I can assure you, if you kill him, I will never, _ever_ tell you where the uranium is."

Mani eyed him speculatively while Ruth sat, stunned into silence.

"Why don't we put that theory to the test, eh, old chap?" Mani asked, reaching to dial his phone again.

"Let him go," Harry said. "Let him go, and I will tell you everything you want to know."


	40. Chapter 40

_Six months earlier…_

Ruth returned from the bathroom to find George right where she'd left him, lying naked in their bed, propped up on the pillows, watching her. His soft dark eyes followed her as she hung her robe on a hook by the door, and slid into bed beside him. Against all her instincts she forced herself to curl up alongside him, resting her head on his shoulder, trying with all her might to relax. He dragged his fingertips up and down the length of her spine while she took deep, steadying breaths, and tried to remind herself who she was.

 _Your name is Rachel Wallace. You're a medical clerk. You love this man._

Some days living the lie was harder than others. For the most part, Ruth had patterned her legend's life on her own experiences, and she found that once she had established a connection with someone, it was easy to build a relationship without having to lie too often. She was still the same person, still interested in the same things, still passionate about the same issues, and once the initial introductions were completed, she could just be herself. There were limits to this honesty, though, when it came to her relationship with George.

Settling down with him had been the obvious choice, in the beginning. He was deeply respected in the community, and once he had begun to refer to her as his wife, the villagers had started to treat her as one of their own, rather than an outsider. She was certain that in a year's time, none of them would recall how strange they had found her upon her arrival, how warily they had regarded her, and that acceptance offered her a certain degree of invisibility. If she could become part of the local landscape, fade into the background, she would not attract unwanted attention, and she could finally, _finally_ stop running.

He wasn't just a means to an end, of course. George was a good man, who often dropped by his patients' homes just to check up on them, who had been known to purchase medications for those who could not afford them, who supported charity work and immediately established a good rapport with every child he met. He treated her gently, and opened his heart to her without reservation. Perhaps it was because of the similarities in their circumstances; at first, Ruth thought that telling him she was mourning her late husband would put a stop to his advances, but then he had smiled sadly, and told her of the wife he had lost. They shared that grief in common, that sorrow for a love unfulfilled, and that grief had planted the seed of their budding romance. _Let him pine for his wife,_ she had thought at the time, _and let me pine for Harry, and perhaps we'll be all right, together._

And yes, she mourned for Harry. In all the months that she had been running, he had haunted her thoughts. All the missed opportunities, everything that could have been, weighed her down and slowed her steps. With distance came clarity, and it was only now, when she was certain that she would never see him again, that Ruth was forced to admit to herself that she loved that grumpy old bastard, with all her heart. She loved him for his courage, for his willingness to sacrifice himself for the sake of others. She loved his pouty lips and his deep, smooth voice. She loved him when he was irascible and stubborn, and she loved him when he was tender. She loved the way he knew her, the way she knew him, the way their shared experiences had forged a bond between them. She loved him as she had never loved anyone else before, and she knew she would never, ever have the chance to tell him so.

That love made it almost impossible for her to open her heart up to George. Though he was good, and kind, he was not Harry, and with each day that passed, Ruth realized what a mistake she had made, moving in with him, allowing him to claim her as his own. There was a certain hardness to George, a certain set of traditionalist sympathies that were making their presence known more and more as she spent more time with him, and it was beginning to concern her. George did not want her to work; he said he wanted to provide for her, did not want her to have to worry, but she had seen the way he looked at the men who spoke to her, at the hospital, the way he insinuated himself into her conversations and quietly asserted his position in her life. He didn't like for her to go to the market alone, didn't like it when she brought home a takeaway instead of cooking dinner.

And what was worse, beneath those somewhat trivial complaints, he held a deep and abiding intolerance for lies of any sort. He did not believe in omitting details, to spare the feelings of his patients' families. White lies ( _oh, that dress looks fine, darling, let's go)_ were right out. Often, they would be preparing to leave for work in the morning, and he would stop and look at her, and ask her why she'd chosen that particular outfit, making his thoughts on the matter very clear, and insisting that it wouldn't be right, to let her leave for the day if he didn't like the way she was dressed. Deep in her heart, Ruth feared it was only a matter of time before the truth caught up with her, and she knew that when it did, George would recoil from her in horror, brand her as a betrayer for all the lies she had told. She knew that he would never understand that she had no choice in the matter. There was no reason good enough, in his mind, to justify a lie.

He wasn't all bad, really. Most days, they laughed together, made love together, and her heart was untroubled by the differences between them. Tonight was different; it was nothing he'd done, nothing he'd said, it was just that earlier, when he'd held her in his arms, when he'd been moving deep inside her, she had been overcome with wishing that he were someone else. In that moment, she had found herself lost in her own thoughts, unable to chase her pleasure as she wondered what it might have been like to, even just once, have felt Harry's arms around her instead.

"I wish you would not do that," George said quietly to her in Greek, pulling her back into the moment with him.

Ruth rolled away from him slightly, and propped herself up on her elbows so she could look into his eyes.

"Do what?" she asked him. The language came more easily to her now than it had done in the beginning; Cypriot Greek was a unique beast, and her background had been in ancient Greek, and not its modern counterpart. She had found her feet, though, and almost all of her daily conversations were carried out in that tongue.

"Every time we make love, you always go and take a shower, after. I would like, just once, to hold you for a while."

Ruth sighed, and leaned across to kiss him, hoping to buy herself time to come up with an appropriate response.

It was not intended as a personal slight against him, though she could see how it might look that way to him. The first night they'd slept together, she'd stumbled into the bathroom after, overcome by guilt and shame and fear, and furiously scrubbed the smell of him from her skin. Ruth had never taken sex lightly; the assault she'd suffered as a teenager had made her skittish and anxious when she found herself in close physical proximity to a man, and she'd spent so long focused solely on raising her son that she had not pursued very many romantic relationships. That first night, she'd felt so guilty, sleeping with a man who did not know her true name, who would not ever know her history, who would not ever truly share her confidences. She had felt, in that moment, as if she had just betrayed George, but more than that, she felt she had betrayed Harry, too. Back in London, she had wanted Harry with a fierceness that shocked her, but she had held herself aloof from him, and that night, standing beneath the scorching stream in George's shower, she had berated herself for giving so freely to George, a man she did not truly care for, what she had denied to the man she truly loved.

After that, it got to be a habit. Those few precious moments of solitude gave her a chance to reorient herself, to remind herself that while she might not love George, she was fond of him, that he was good to her, that they had built a good life, and that her circumstances were not as dire as they seemed. It calmed her, and helped her to find a sort of happiness, as she reflected on the positive aspects of their relationship. When George held her too close or too long she began to feel as if she were suffocating beneath the weight of him, and taking a few minutes to herself helped her to quiet her fears.

There was no way she was telling him that, though.

"It's nothing personal," she assured him as she pulled away from their kiss. "I love you, and I love the way you love me." _Another lie,_ she thought glumly. "I just sleep better, if I take a shower first. That's all."

George made a soft humming sound, signaling his agreement, and pulled her back into his arms. _Relax_ , she told herself, allowing him to pull her body alongside his, dropping her head back onto his shoulder. _You're safe here,_ she reminded herself. _He's a good man, and he loves you, and you're safe, with him._ She wondered what sort of woman she had become, that her safety had become more important than her own feelings, but she knew better than to pursue that line of thought. If she considered her circumstances for too long she'd go mad, wishing things were different.

"I was thinking," George continued in that same soft tone of voice, planting a gentle kiss against the top of her head. "What if you stopped taking the pill?"

"What?" she squeaked, pulling away from him once more. She couldn't believe that he would actually suggest such a thing, and her heart was pounding in her chest, fluttering against her ribs like a frightened bird trapped in a cage.

"You could just stop taking it, and we could just see what happens. It might be nice, to have a little one around the house."

He was smiling at her, as if he expected her to fling herself into his arms and declare her long-hidden desire to have a child with him. In truth, the thought of having a child with George made her stomach heave, made bile rise in the back of her throat.

Ruth already had a child, a son she loved more than anyone or anything else in the world, a child she had given up everything for, and she could not imagine ever having another. If sleeping with George was a betrayal of Harry, having a family with him most certainly felt like betraying Will.

Ruth harbored hopes of one day, maybe a few more years down the road, reaching out to her son. Any communication with Harry was dangerous and sure to be intercepted, but she imagined that Will was not under the same sort of scrutiny, and she hoped to one day reconnect with him. And when that day came, she did not want him to feel as if she had replaced him, as if she had given another child the sort of life, the sort of family, that Will had been denied. As if he had not been enough for her.

And on top of that, she had more personal, more visceral reasons for not wanting to have a child with George. Her pregnancy and Will's birth had been deeply painful for her, emotionally as well as physically, and she had no interest in revisiting those memories, reopening those wounds. And having a child would bind her to George in a way, would make it impossible for her to pack up and run, should her past catch up with her. How could she hope to make good her escape, with George clinging to one hand and a child clinging to the other? She could not afford to become too attached to her life here; that was one reason she had declined George's initial offer of marriage.

"I told you, I don't want children," she said slowly. It was true; they had already had this conversation, early on in their relationship, and she had told him explicitly that if he wanted children he would need to find another partner. Why then was he coming back to the issue now?

"I thought perhaps, now that we're more…settled, you might have changed your mind," he said in an irritatingly reasonable tone of voice. "You don't have much time left, you know, if you decide that you do want a baby."

He wasn't saying it to hurt her, she knew; it was just his fabled _brutal honesty in all things_ approach coming back to the fore once more. Still, though, the words lit a quiet rage within her.

"I haven't changed my mind," she ground out from behind clenched teeth. "And I won't."

With those words she rolled away from him, turned off her bedside lamp, and curled up beneath the duvet. He tried to pull her back to him, but she resisted, and she felt him sigh in a resigned sort of way before he too turned out the light and settled down to sleep. As she tried to calm the frantic stuttering of her heart, Ruth found herself assaulted by memories of Will; Will as a baby, Will learning to walk, Will going off to his first day of school, Will waving goodbye as she left him at Oxford for the first time.

 _My son,_ she thought despondently, _my only son. I am truly sorry, for leaving you. I'm sorry for all the pain I've caused you. I have thought of you every hour, every day._

And she had. As George began to snore beside her, Ruth began to cry, weeping for her son, weeping for herself, weeping because she did not know what else to do.


	41. Chapter 41

Will watched in confusion as one of the guards led Malcolm into the room. To his eyes, Malcolm looked somber, worried but not frightened, and he tried to tell himself this was a good thing. If Malcolm was not scared, then he wouldn't be either.

On the other side of the room, John leapt to his feet. "What the hell is this?" he demanded angrily.

Malcolm took a deep breath, and started to speak. "I've come to offer myself-"

"I wasn't talking to you!" John cut him off sharply. "You two, stay here." With those words, John and the guard departed through the kitchen door and out into the garden. Through all of this Will had remained rooted to the spot, and he watched through the window in silence as John began to berate his comrade. He could not hear the words, though he strained with all his might. It was the sound of Malcolm's coming to stand beside him that brought him back into the moment.

"Uncle Malcolm?" he asked.

Malcolm reached out, and laid a gentle hand on his shoulder. "How are you, Will?" he asked seriously. "Have they treated you well?"

At this, Will spun around, truly frightened now. "Of course they have!" he said indignantly. "Harry sent them…" Will lost his voice as he saw the sorrow in Malcolm's clear blue eyes.

 _Oh, shit._

"I'm very sorry, Will," the older man said.

For a time they were silent, watching as John made a phone call on his mobile. Will's thoughts were tumbling through his mind, chaotic and uncertain. If these men weren't working for Harry, then who the bloody hell were they, and where was George? It had been over an hour since Will had last seen the man; he had assumed that George had gone upstairs, perhaps for a shower or a nap, but when he thought about it, he could not recall having heard his mother's husband re-enter the house. And he was no longer in the garden; Will had spent quite some time out there alone, kicking a football forlornly and cursing his circumstances. He was afraid, more frightened than he had ever been in his life. He didn't know what was happening, didn't know why he was here, and he had no idea how he was going to get out.

"Where is my mum?" he asked finally.

Malcolm sighed. "I wish I knew," he said softly.

That did it. Will had had enough of lies. For days now he had suffered in ignorance, cut off from those he loved most, unable to understand or control his own circumstances. He felt it was high time he got some answers.

"Right," Will said grimly. "Start at the beginning."

* * *

Mani had left them to take a call, and Harry found himself grateful for the momentary respite. What he was about to do was incredibly dangerous, and there was every possibility that Mani would simply kill them all and be done with it. Still, though, Harry could see no other way.

His plan was simple, really. He would insist that Will be released, arguing that Mani still held himself and Ruth as hostages and thus maintained the upper hand. Once he saw Will safely on his way, he intended to tell Mani that the uranium was currently being held at Porton Down, kept secret from those with even the highest security clearances. It was a long drive from the warehouse to the facility, he knew, and it wasn't as if Mani and his men could just walk right in and start turning over wastepaper bins and filing cabinets looking for the stuff; Mani would need time to formulate a plan. And while he was busy with that, Harry dearly hoped that Ros and Lucas would have put together their own strategy to locate and extract himself and Ruth. Mani might kill him, the moment he appeared to have outlived his usefulness; then again, if Mani were smart, he would keep both Harry and Ruth alive, to enact his revenge once he discovered the lie. It was a risk, he knew, but he could think of no other way to bring Will to safety.

In the relative peace left by Mani's absence, he turned his thoughts away from lies, and onto the woman sitting in the chair across from him. Ruth had a dazed, glassy look on her face; she had gone eerily still, since Harry had made his declaration. There was no way for him to communicate with her without Mani knowing it, no way for him to share with her the plan he hopped would protect both Will and the uranium. He could only imagine what she must be thinking now, what she must think of _him._

He wanted to so badly to tell her so many different things, but he knew that now was neither the time nor the place. Now was not the time to tell her that he had photos of Will's graduation to show her. Now was not the time to tell her that her cats and Scarlet were getting on so well that they often curled up to sleep at night together, all three of them squeezed into one small basket. Now was not the time to tell her that he had murdered the man who dared to attack her as a child. Now was not the time to tell her how he had longed for her, how often he had dreamt of her, how lost he had been without her. For what would such confessions accomplish? They would serve only to remind her of the horror of their current circumstances, and the bitterness of their long separation. Such confessions would only remind Ruth of just how much she had missed, while she had been away.

"Ruth," he said her name softly, dearly wishing to have her soft blue eyes look his way once more. For two long years, the closest he had come to looking into her beloved eyes was when he beheld the face of her son, and that was nothing compared to this, to the joy and the terror and the utter ruin of finding himself alone with the woman he loved.

"We aren't getting out of here alive, are we?" she asked him a dull voice, still refusing to raise her face to him.

"Of course we are," Harry said emphatically. "Don't give up me now, Ruth."

She did look up at him then, tears streaming silently down her cheeks. She was not shaking, any more, but his heart broke to see her weeping thus, and himself unable to do a single thing to comfort her.

"They killed him," she said softly. "He did nothing, he knew nothing, and they killed him anyway. What makes you think they won't do the same to us?"

Her words pierced his heart like a thousand tiny needles. _She is grieving for her husband,_ he reminded himself. _She has lost the man she loves, and it's all your bloody fault. Of course she doesn't trust you._

"Do you know what the worst part is?" she continued in that same soft, emotionless tone of voice, a tone that sent shivers down his spine. _She sounds as if she were dead already._

"I didn't want to marry him. George wanted a wife, and a child. He wanted something I could never give him, and I stayed with him anyway."

"Ruth," his voice cracked as he spoke her name. This was truly unbearable, listening to her talking about this man who had loved her, this man who had known her in a way Harry had only ever dreamed about. It was torture, torture of a kind he had never known. He closed his eyes, hoping to hide from her the emotions that threatened to consume him, but even that was not enough to stop the visions that came to him, visions of Ruth and George in bed together, making love, playing with their child. Visions of everything Harry had ever wanted, everything he had been denied.

"I never loved him, and he died anyway. He died because of me, and I couldn't even do him the courtesy of loving him."

And what could Harry possibly say to that? How could he tell her that despite the circumstances, knowing that Ruth had not loved this man filled him with relief? It would be selfish in the extreme, to bring his own feelings into the matter when everything around them was chaos and uncertainty, when she was so clearly grieving, despite her revelation regarding her feelings for George.

"It was not your fault, Ruth," he told her. "You've done nothing wrong. This isn't happening because of anything you did."

"Isn't it?" she asked him. In that moment, he looked into her eyes, and he drowned. Whatever small piece of resistance was left to him began to crumble, and he rose from his chair, intent on crossing the space between them, on reaching out to touch her, to feel the warmth of her skin beneath his fingertips.

"All of this happened because I loved you, Harry," she said sadly, and he froze, standing barely six inches from her, suddenly unable to move, unable to breathe, unable to think. "Mace targeted me, because I loved you. I left, because I loved you. I stayed with George with because I loved you, and I was so lonely for you I thought I would perish from it."

Before he could find the words to respond to such a declaration, Mani stormed into the room, fury written in every line of his face, and Harry blanched, forcing himself back into his seat before Mani did it for him.

* * *

"You say you will tell me where the uranium is, if I let the boy go," Mani said, his back turned to Ruth as he spoke curtly to Harry. She took a moment to breathe, trying to regain her sense of equilibrium. In truth she could not believe she'd done that, that she had confessed her feelings to Harry in a moment of weakness and doubt and pain. He deserved more than that, she knew, but the words had fallen from her lips before she'd had the chance to stop them, and she knew there was no taking them back now.

It was the truth, though, and she knew it. Ruth had condemned George to die, the moment she had first allowed him to pull her into his bed. She had known, somewhere deep in her heart, that their story must end in tragedy. Her heart had cried out against it, when she had agree to buy that little villa with him, when she told him she loved him, when she let him hold her in the night. Still, though, she had stayed, because she was lonely, because she missed Harry, because she thought having _someone_ was better than having no one at all. And that selfishness had cost George his life.

She knew that Harry would blame himself, for all of this. He was the one who had moved the uranium, after all. But she would never have gone to Baghdad with him, would never have shared the secret with him in the first place, if they had not loved each other, if they had not trusted one another above all others. Their love had doomed them, and everyone around them. She could only pray that Harry's plan would bring her son to safety, that her child at least would not have to suffer the same fate that awaited her.

 _Please, Harry,_ she thought. _Please, save my baby._

"I will," Harry said shortly.

"Let's see how this plays out, shall we?" Mani said. "Know this, Harry. If you lie to me, I will let my men do whatever they wish to Ruth." He laid his hand on her shoulder and she recoiled from his touch, revolted and horrified. "And what they will do, well…it doesn't bear thinking about."

Ruth nearly laughed aloud as hysteria threatened to consume her. _Let them come,_ she thought. _There is nothing you can do to me, no pain you can inflict on me, that is worse than what I have already suffered._

"Let the boy go," Harry said from between clenched teeth. "Let him go, and I will tell you everything you need to know."

For a long moment, Mani simply stared at Harry, sizing him up while Ruth's heart pounded in her chest. Beside her the video had begun to play on the laptop again, and she turned her attention toward it, watching Will as he stood in the kitchen talking to-

 _Oh, no. Not Malcolm, too._

"Your agent came to rescue the boy," Mani explained, following Ruth's gaze to the laptop. "He seemed to think we would find him an acceptable substitute." His voice oozed with disdainful amusement, and the sound of it nearly made Ruth sick to her stomach. "Here is what we will do, Harry. I will let the boy go with this man. You can watch. They will get into your officer's car, and he will drive away. You will then tell me where the uranium is. If you do not, well…" he paused here, letting the silence speak for him, letting Harry and Ruth fill in the gaps with their own imaginations. Across from her, Harry sat still as a stone, the vein throbbing in his neck the only outward sign of his rage.

"Do we have a deal?" Mani asked.

"We do," Harry said curtly.

* * *

"Walk," John said, prodding Will sharply in the back.

Will turned to Malcolm, who gave him an encouraging sort of nod, and together they trooped down the pavement, the hairs on the back of Will's neck prickling the whole time. He imagined he could feel a half a dozen pairs of eyes, a half a dozen guns trained on his back as they walked.

"Uncle Malcolm-"

"Don't talk," Malcolm cut him off. "Wait until we get in the car."

Will fell silent, staring at his feet as he went. While they had stood together in the kitchen, Malcolm had told him everything. Told him of his mother, and Harry, and the missing uranium. He spoke of the mole in the security services, explained that John and his men were renegade agents, that whatever their purpose in holding Will, their aim was likely nefarious. And he had spoken too of George, of how the surveillance feeds had gone silent, and Will had heard everything he _didn't_ say. Will and Malcolm were leaving that house without George, and Will could only think of one possible explanation for that turn of events. It was agonizing, really, to imagine that George was dead, that his mum had once again been denied the chance to live a happy life. How devastated would she be, when she learned that her husband was gone? The thought was so horrible that his mind shrunk back from it, and desperately he tried to focus on something else. Those men had let them go, and Will chose to believe this was a good thing. He chose to believe that this meant their trial was nearing an end and he hoped, he wished, he prayed, that he might be able to see his mother again soon. There was nothing he wanted more.

* * *

Once Harry had revealed the location of the uranium, Mani had turned away from him to gaze out the window, ostensibly considering the merits of this revelation.

 _Believe me,_ Harry thought. _Please, believe me._ Just a few hours, that was all they needed. Just a few hours for Lucas and Ros to find them, just a few hours and they would be safe, and Ruth could be reunited with her son. She had not spoken since Mani had rejoined them; she had been unable to look away from the sight of Will on the laptop, and the moment Will and Malcolm drove away, she had buried her face in her hands, and she had not looked up since. In a way Harry was grateful for that; he could lie to anyone, about anything, but he could not bear the thought of carrying out this ruse with her eyes on him. He had always believed that she was too good, too kind, too gentle for a man like him, and he did not want her to see him like this, cold and calculating and gambling with her life.

The panes on the windows were broken, and from the courtyard down below the sound of screeching tires and shouting voices drifted up to them, and Harry's heart rocketed up into his throat.

 _Please,_ he thought. _Please let this madness end._

"McCall's been detained by your officers," Mani reported from the window, and Harry breathed a sigh of relief. _Finally. "_ They'll be downstairs cutting a deal, and I'll be the fall guy."

There was something in Mani's voice, something that frightened Harry, prevented him from echoing the hopefullness that showed on Ruth's face as she dropped her hands and looked up at him sharply. Mani had dedicated years of his life to finding the uranium; if he was discovered in this warehouse, not only would he lose the opportunity to locate the treasure he so dearly sought, he would lose his job, his freedom, maybe even his very life. The arrival of Harry's people downstairs had backed Mani into a corner, and men like him acted rashly under such circumstances.

"Stop this now," Harry told him. "It doesn't need to be that way. We can do a deal, too." _Listen to me, you bastard._

"I'm a dead man walking," Mani told him, not turning his gaze from the window. "So, I might as well finish what I was going to do at the end of this, anyway."

Harry looked up at him sharply. _What I was going to do…oh, Christ no._

For Harry knew how this would play out, knew what Mani had intended. It was never a part of his plan, to let Harry and Ruth walk free. But Mani would not just kill them, no, he would want them to suffer, and Harry knew it.

As Mani turned from the window, Harry's heart pounded in his chest. He saw the knife before Ruth did, and leapt to his feet with a roar.

 _Not Ruth, not my Ruth, not now, not like this-_

It all happened very quickly.

Ruth registered the cold steel of the knife against her throat and gasped, her hands raising up to protect her face reflexively.

Mani's men held Harry firm as he struggled, desperately trying to reach her.

Lucas all but flew into the room.

A single shot was fired.

And Mani hit the floor, dead.

* * *

Ruth was rocking back and forth, unable to comprehend what she saw before her. Mani lay dead on the floor, his life's blood spreading out in a pool beneath his chest. She looked up sharply, and saw Lucas North, gun raised, looming in the darkness like an avenging angel come to her aid.

 _It's over,_ she thought, numb for just a moment before the events of the last few days completely overwhelmed her. _Oh, God, Harry. What have I done?_

* * *

Ruth raised her tear-streaked face to him, her eyes pleading and uncertain as she wept, slightly hysterical, now that it was all over. Like clockwork, Lucas's team secured the room, taking the weapons from Mani's men and handcuffing them. Lucas went to Ruth, laid a gentle hand on her shoulder, talked to her softly as he cut the ties that bound her hands. It was clear Ruth could not hear a word he said; her eyes were fixed on Harry.

"Harry," she choked out his name. " _Harry_."

Over and over again she whispered his name, weeping. The moment her bonds were loosed she buried her face in her hands.

"All right, Harry?" Lucas asked as he leaned over him, cutting him free as well.

Harry could not bring himself to respond. No, he bloody well was _not_ all right, but Ruth was here, and they were safe, and she was hurting. He could not see anyone but her, could not hear anything but her voice, speaking his name over and over in a devastated sort of mantra. As soon as he was free he was on his feet. He crossed the floor, and knelt down before her, taking both of her hands in his.

"Ruth," he said softly. "Look at me, Ruth."

She did, and despite the ravages of heartbreak on her face, he could not help but think how beautiful she was, could not help but think how grateful he was that she was still alive.

"You're all right, Ruth. It's all right."

"Harry," she breathed his name one last time. This time, though, it was not a question. This time, it was a prayer.

He hauled himself to his feet, and pulled her up with him. She collapsed against him, burying her face in his chest while she wept. He held her close, breathing in the gentle scent of her hair, feeling the warmth of her radiating through his shirt to set his skin ablaze with need of her. "You're safe. Will is safe. It's all right," he told her. Beside him Lucas was staring speculatively at the pair of them, but Harry found he could not have cared less. Ruth was here, and she was safe. There was nothing more he needed in that moment than to hold her, and so he did.


	42. Chapter 42

Malcolm drove him straight back to his mum's house, strangely empty now that the cats were gone and Will was spending almost all his time in Oxford. True to his word, Harry had seen to it that the little house was kept neat and tidy, so while there was no food in the fridge, it was at least clean and warm.

"This goes against every protocol I can think of," Malcolm confessed as he watched Will unlocking the front door, casting his eyes warily up and down the street as if on the look-out for some unseen predators lurking in the shadows. Dusk was beginning to fall around them, bringing with it the chill of an early winter's night.

"Do you think we're in danger?" Will asked, trying to ignore the now familiar bite of fear as he swung open the door and led the way inside.

"To be honest, I don't know," Malcolm said, giving him a tired, lopsided sort of smile.

Will couldn't help it; he smiled back. _The world's gone barking mad,_ he thought."Right, then. Tea?"

"I think so, yes," Malcolm agreed, and together they trooped into the kitchen.

As he set about starting the tea, Will thought back over the events of the last few days, trying not to linger too long on the memories of being assaulted in this very house. They'd found him here, the Russians, and traded him on, all for the sake of something Malcolm would not identify to him. All Malcolm had said was _these people, they want something, and Harry and your mother are the only people who know where it is._ Still, it was more information than Will had possessed prior to talking with him, and he was grateful for it. Malcolm had seen his mum, had spoken to her, and he assured Will that she was looking very well, though obviously she was very worried about the situation they'd found themselves in. Of course, that was before she'd been taken; there was no telling what sort of state she was in now.

 _Don't go thinking about that now,_ he chided himself. Wherever she was, his mum was with Harry, and Will had to believe that Harry would bring her home safely. He knew how much Harry cared for her, had seen it in a thousand tiny moments over the last two years, and he knew that Harry would rather die than see any harm come to her.

"They will be all right, Will," Malcolm said, folding himself primly into a chair by the kitchen table.

 _Bloody spooks,_ Will thought ruefully. _Mind readers, the lot of them._

They were quiet for a time, the old man and his young charge taking turns staring unobtrusively at one another, each of them terribly anxious and trying not to show it. As they waited for news, Will considered the man sat across the table from him. They had come to be friends, after a fashion; they'd met that first Christmas at Harry's, and had grown closer the next year, when Will had roped Malcolm into helping him with Harry's Christmas surprise. They did not see each other regularly, but young Wes referred to him as _Uncle Malcolm,_ and Will had started using the moniker for him as well. It suited him; he did look the part of the kindly uncle, with his baggy suits and his often uncomfortable demeanor. Beneath the somewhat stuffy exterior Malcolm possessed a heart of gold, and Will found himself quite fond of the man as a result. He imagined that Malcolm and his mum must have got on quite well together, both of them bookish and awkward and gentle souls, and he was glad that Malcolm had decided to keep him company while they waited. Although, Malcolm hadn't explained just what it was they were waiting _for;_ he'd said only _I think they're quite close now, we should hear something soon._

Five minutes turned into ten, and still no word. Ten became twenty, and at the end of an hour, Will was practically climbing the walls, pacing the kitchen with an empty mug of tea clutched in his hands. _What's taking so bloody long?_ He wondered, though he did not give voice to this thought. He did not want to appear ungrateful; he knew that Malcolm had taken a great risk, in coming to his aid, and he was thankful for it.

Finally, though, they heard the sound of someone knocking on the door.

"Better go and see who it is, lad," Malcolm prodded him with a gentle smile.

Will took a deep breath, set down his mug, and went to answer the door with Malcolm hot on his heels.

* * *

They bundled her into a car, after. Harry tried to convince them to take her in an ambulance, tried to say that she needed looking over, but she protested, pointing out that he was the one who was bleeding, not her. He'd received a wound at some point, and the blood had seeped through his shirt, staining his sleeve red. If she were being honest, Ruth couldn't bear the thought of spending another moment in his company, just now. She didn't want to debrief, didn't want to relieve the horror of the last few days, didn't want to face the warmth radiating from his kind hazel eyes. She was terribly ashamed of the way she'd behaved; she'd fallen to pieces, when she realized her son was in danger. Despite her years of training, despite knowing it was wrong in every sense of the word, she had been willing to give up the uranium just to see Will safe, and she couldn't bear the thought of how that must have affected Harry's perception of her. She had been weak, had confessed her feelings to him in a moment of selfish need, and she did not want to face her own mistakes.

What Ruth wanted, more than anything else, was to see her son. For two long years she had missed him, had worried about him every day, and for a few hideous hours this afternoon, she had faced the very real possibility of his imminent death. So no, she didn't want to talk to Harry, didn't want to give vent to her feelings of grief and bitter longing. She wanted to see her son, wanted to hold him in her arms, wanted to forget, for however brief a time, all the terrible things she'd done.

Jo seemed to understand. "Will is with Malcolm now," she had told Ruth in her soft voice as they watched the paramedics wrestling Harry into an ambulance despite his protests, despite his pleading eyes, which were fixed on Ruth all the while. "Would you like to go and see him?"

Ruth found herself too choked with emotion to speak, and so she simply nodded. The girl understood, though, and she bundled Ruth into the car without another word about it.

As they drove along, Ruth began to wonder how it was that Jo had known about her son, how _Harry_ had known. _Oh, Christ, Harry,_ she realized. _Harry knows._ Despite everything she had done to cover her tracks, everything she had done to keep Will safe, to keep this secret from Harry, to keep herself on the pedestal he had built for her, Harry had learned the truth. She had no more tears left to shed, not for herself or her own mistakes, and so she simply asked outright.

"How did you know, Jo? About Will, I mean."

The girl kept her eyes fixed on the road, but she smiled, nonetheless. "Last Christmas, Will arranged for us all to go round to Harry's, to celebrate." Ruth was surprised at that; not that Will had done such a thing, for it was precisely the sort of event he would have loved to engineer, but surprised that they had all gone round to Harry's, that Will had known Harry well enough to offer such an invitation. "He told us he was Harry's nephew, but…he favors you, Ruth."

"Was it really that obvious?" Ruth asked ruefully. _I know he looks a bit like me, but really, that's too much, even for a spook._

"Oh, I didn't put it together, at first. Connie…" at the mention of the name Jo lost her voice, and a terrible, haunted look passed over her face. She brought herself back under control quickly, though. The girl had changed so much, over the last two years. Her hair was shorter, and she had lost that doe-eyed quality, that graceful naiveté she possessed when Ruth had first met her. She was harder now. _More like the rest of us,_ Ruth thought sadly. "Connie thought he might be Harry's son."

Ruth had been drinking from a small bottle of water Jo had given her, and she promptly choked on it, sputtering in the passenger's seat while Jo tried not to smile. _Harry's son…_ A well of bitter disappointment sprang up inside her at the thought. Will had never had a proper father, and Ruth had always lamented that fact, had always wished she'd been able to give her son the kind of family he deserved. Before she left London, she had briefly entertained the idea of what it might have been like, if she and Harry had tried to make a proper go of it, if she had ever been brave enough to introduce him to her son. She had imagined them watching the cricket together, teasing one another gently over breakfast, and those old dreams assaulted her all at once, leaving her gasping and nearly bowled over by her sorrow.

Jo was still speaking though, and she tried valiantly to focus on the words.

"I didn't know, really, it's just Malcolm phoned, while we were on our way to you. He said he had Will, and that he'd taken him to yours, and I…sort of put it all together. He's your son, isn't he, Ruth?"

She nodded, feeling a bit dumbfounded. Though she had wondered many times over the years how her colleagues might respond, should they ever learn of her deception, she had never imagined it going quite like this.

"He's a sweet kid," Jo said.

"He is," Ruth agreed, and that was that. They spoke no more until Jo pulled the car to a stop in front of her house.

"Here we go," Jo told her.

Ruth could not speak. She was staring up at her house, the little house she loved so well. The house where she had made a fresh start, where she thought she would live when all her dreams came true. _I stood on that doorstep, and kissed Harry Pearce, in another life,_ she thought. The front garden showed obvious signs of having been well-tended; she wasn't sure who she had to thank for that, though she was fairly certain it wasn't Will. He always hated gardening.

 _My son is in this house,_ she thought numbly as she followed Jo up the walk. _My sweet boy._

She knocked on the door, feeling a bit odd as she did so. The key was long gone, lost in one of her many moves over the last few years. _How strange it is, to be a visitor in my own house_.

And then the door opened, and her eyes fell on Will.

"Mum!" he cried, clearly shocked.

For a long moment Ruth stared at him; his hair was still entirely too long, but his face was still boyish and kind. Despite his captivity, he looked well, and something deep inside her broke free at the sight of him. She let loose a single, hysterical sob, and launched herself at him, clinging to him fiercely as he wrapped his arms around her. Her boy was a full head taller than she was, and skinny as a post, and she was so relieved to see him alive and well and safe that she found she could do nothing but bury her face in his chest and hold him. Dimly she was aware that he was shaking; _don't cry, love,_ she thought sadly. _Mummy's here. Mummy's home._

* * *

"Why don't you go into the kitchen, have a cup of tea?" Malcolm suggested, shuffling awkwardly from one foot to the other as he watched the pair of them, hugging and weeping in the doorway.

Beneath him Will heard his mother laugh, and he released his hold on her, embarrassed at their sudden display of affection. They had always been affectionate, the pair of them, but they had never been particularly good at sharing that piece of themselves with other people.

"Are you all right, love?" she asked him in a shaking voice, reaching up to cup his cheek with her hand, forcing him to look into the warmth of her familiar ocean-blue eyes. _Am I all right?_ he thought as he looked at her. _What about you?_ She was clearly exhausted, her face wan and pale, but, as ever, her first thought was of him.

He nodded. "Are you?" Malcolm had said she'd been taken, too, and God only knew what sort of ordeal she'd been through. He saw a flicker of pain in her face, and wondered for a moment if they'd already told her about George. Will dearly hoped he wouldn't have to be the one to tell her that her husband was dead.

His mum only sighed, and gave him a weak little smile. "I am now," she said.

"We should go," Jo spoke from the doorway, motioning toward Malcolm. "A surveillance team will stay outside the house, for the next few days, just in case. And you'll need to come in, both of you, for the debrief, but I think that can wait."

Malcolm nodded his agreement, and made his way towards the door.

"Thank you, Jo," Ruth said earnestly, and the girl gave her a glowing smile in response.

As Malcolm passed her, Ruth reached out and caught him by the arm, stopping him in his tracks. She reached up on her tiptoes, and kissed him on the cheek. "Thank you, Malcolm," she whispered.

For his part, Malcolm just blushed, and smiled bashfully down at the floor, before leaving them both without another word.

"Now then," Ruth said as the door closed behind them. "How about that cup of tea?"

Will grinned at her, and hugged her again.

* * *

"Do you want to talk about it?" Will asked as he settled down beside her on the sofa. Without thinking about it, Ruth stretched her right arm out along the back of the sofa, and Will curled into her side, his head resting on her shoulder. She hadn't held him this much since he was a child, but he seemed to need the closeness as much as she did, just now, needed that reassurance that she really was there, that this wasn't all some terrible dream.

"I really don't," she said softly, taking a sip of her tea.

And _god,_ but she didn't. She didn't want to talk about it, didn't want to think about any of it. Not George, not Mani, not Harry, not any of it. Her ordeal had left her drained, mentally and physically and emotionally exhausted, and it was enough for her to simply hold her son now, to sit in her little house, to sip her tea, to try and pretend, for however long she could, that things were normal.

Ruth didn't know where they would go from here. She didn't know what her status was, now that she was back in the country and under MI-5 surveillance; officially she was still dead, but dead people don't walk into Thames House on a regular basis, and she wasn't sure how long Harry and his team could keep her existence a secret. Would she be forced to run again? Had Harry cleared her name in her absence? Could he do so now, now that she was home? She didn't know, and she wasn't sure she wanted the answer.

And she certainly wasn't sure where she stood with Harry. The weight of her guilt over George's death was suffocating her, like a heavy stone sitting on her chest, slowly crushing her. And her shame over the way she had behaved in the warehouse, the way she had quickly caved to Mani's demands, made the thought of seeing Harry just now unbearable. _How little must he think of me?_ She wondered. _For years I never let him in, never gave him the closeness that he wanted, and I wanted until we were about to die to tell him I loved him? How pathetic must I seem to him?_

"Harry all right?" Will asked her. His voice was soft and sleepy, and as much as his question bothered her, she smiled to hear him speak. _Christ,_ but she had missed this boy. Will was a living, breathing piece of herself, a young man she'd raised through uncounted hardships, through sorrow and joy, and she had felt empty without him in her life, felt as if she were walking around with a gaping hole in her chest, left open for all the world to see.

"He is, love," she assured him.

Will nodded, and spoke no more.

* * *

It was late, and Harry knew this was a bad idea. He knew he should have gone home, had a shower, had a stiff drink, had a good night's rest before he saw her again. Though he had changed into a clean suit on the Grid, he still felt as grimy and dirty as he had done in the warehouse, and he knew he wasn't at his best. Still, though, he found he could not stay away.

Ruth was here, in London, Ruth had told him she loved him, Ruth had nearly lost everything because of him, and Harry could not bear the thought of returning to his home, to his dog and her little cats, without seeing her again. _She must hate me,_ he thought as he dithered on the doorstep. He had played a dangerous game, he knew, and he was certain that she had believed, for however brief a moment, that he was willing to sacrifice her son for the greater good. Her husband had died, because of him, because of the things he'd done; even if she hadn't loved the man, she'd still been bound to him in a way, and Harry believed the responsibility for George's death rested squarely on his own shoulders.

That didn't stop him.

With a trembling hand he reached out, and unlocked her front door with the key he'd carried in his pocket since the night she'd left him two years before. As quietly as he could he slipped into the house, and locked the door behind him. He made his way down the hall, peeked into the sitting room, and stopped dead in his tracks.

Ruth was sitting on the sofa, holding a cup of tea in one hand. With the other, she was gently running her fingers through her son's unruly hair. Will was sleeping peacefully, his head cradled in her lap. The sight of them together, after so many years apart, this vision of simple domesticity Harry had dreamed of so often, nearly stopped his heart in his chest. For long moments he simply drank in the sight of them, this woman he loved with all his heart, this boy he loved as much as his own son.

 _She's safe,_ he told himself. _She's home._


	43. Chapter 43

Ruth felt a little prickling on the back of her neck, a certain familiar sensation that had haunted her these last two years. She looked up sharply from her perusal of her son's face, and found Harry standing there in the doorway of her sitting room. He'd crept up, quiet as a shadow; no sound had reached her, not the door opening and closing, not his footfalls or his slow, steady breathing. It was only that little prickling feeling, the one that stirred deep inside her whenever he was near, that alerted her to his presence.

Fear consumed her, at the sight of him; _could you not give me one night, Harry? Can I not have just one bloody night to myself, before you come to ruin it all?_ It was an ungrateful thought, she knew, but she could not fathom why he had come, if not to rattle off the list of her sins and denounce her as a betrayer. She had broken down, in the face of Mani's twisted game, she had lied to Harry for _years_ , and now that he knew the truth, she knew that whatever they could have been together was lost, a sacrifice of her own making. She knew this, and she could not bear the thought of enduring such a conversation, not now, not after everything that had happened between them earlier in the day. All she wanted was a little time, to get her thoughts in order, to prepare herself for his reprisals, and he denied her even that small allowance.

"Harry?" she said softly, trying not to wake Will, trying not to cry. _I loved you,_ she thought. _You may hate me for lying, but I would do it all again, every moment of it._ "Why are you here?"

"I wanted… _needed_ to see if you were all right. Both of you." He spoke in that soft, gentle voice she loved so well, the tone he'd used with her that morning in her kitchen, after Mik Mauldsley had died. The tone he used when he was trying to reassure her, when he was trying not to frighten her. It surprised her, hearing him speak to her thus when she had expected nothing but rage from him; could it be, she wondered, heart pounding in her chest, could it be that he was not as cross as she had first believed him to be?

Before she could find the words to respond to such a statement, Will stirred below her. Immediately her attention snapped back to her son, watching his thick eyelashes fluttering on his cheeks until he woke fully, and smiled up at her sheepishly. Even though she was frightened, even though she was desolate, even though she was nearly drowning beneath the weight of her guilt, the sight of her son's face after these long years of separation warmed her heart, and she very nearly smiled at him. She couldn't help herself.

"Christ, I'm sorry," he said, dragging himself up with a yawn, rubbing at his bleary eyes. "I feel like I haven't slept in days."

Panic began to set in now, as Ruth watched her son wake, as she wondered how the hell she was going to navigate the awkwardness of the inevitable conversation that would begin once Will caught sight of Harry. How was she supposed to explain any of this to either of them? How uncomfortable would Harry be, when faced with the living, breathing evidence of her treachery? _I can't do this now, please, I can't._

"Harry!" Will cried suddenly, bolting to his feet as he caught sight of the battered old spook in the doorway. "Christ, mate, it's good to see you."

Ruth watched, completely confused and choking back a very nearly hysterical sob as her son all but ran across the room, and caught Harry in a fierce embrace in the doorway. For his part, Harry returned the boy's hug just as readily, clapping him on the back and laughing, a light, relieved sort of chuckle that shocked Ruth to the core. She couldn't remember the last time she'd heard him laugh.

"You're a sight for sore eyes," Harry told him as they broke apart, grinning at one another. "You all right?"

"Yeah, yeah, mate I'm fine. Right as rain. You've looked better, though."

At this Harry just shrugged, his smile slipping away as his eyes drifted back to Ruth, and sorrow replaced the enthusiasm that had lit his features only a moment before.

"Right, we need tea, and we need it now," Will said, all traces of his earlier exhaustion gone as he all but bounced up and down on the balls of his feet. He looked very nearly gleeful, in that moment, and Ruth could not understand what was unfolding before her very eyes. She was exhausted, she was devastated, and her mind struggled to keep up with everything that was happening.

"Oh no, love, it's late," Ruth protested weakly. She was shaking, left utterly lost by the interaction she'd just witnessed. Though she knew that Will and Harry had somehow become acquainted in her absence, nothing had prepared her for what she saw now, for the level of familiarity they displayed with one another. In the days before Cotterdam Ruth had dearly wished to see them thus, affectionate and friendly with one another, but now that her dream had become a reality, she found herself very nearly terrified. _Oh Harry, there's so many things I haven't told you, please, please don't be cross._

"Tea it is!" Will said, ignoring her completely. "Harry, help me in the kitchen, will you, mate?" And with that Will spun on his heel and headed off down the hall, leaving Harry shuffling uncomfortably in his absence.

"I'll just…erm…I'll…I'll be right back," he stammered, shooting her an apologetic glance, and then he too left her.

Ruth leaned back against the sofa cushions, taking deep, steadying breaths. _Maybe it's not as bad as all that,_ she tried to convince herself. After all, if Harry were angry, if he were here to accuse her of ill-conduct, here to tell her that any chance they had of being friends once more was lost on account of her own deceit, he would surely not have behaved so indulgently towards her son. Would he?

* * *

"I don't think this is a good idea, Will," Harry told him seriously once he caught up to the lad.

"She's not all right, Harry," Will told him in a soft voice as he filled the kettle. "She says she is, but I know her, and she's not. She'll tell you to leave and then she'll go upstairs and she'll cry all bloody night. She needs to talk to someone about this, now, before things get any worse. I don't know what the hell went on out there, and I'm not sure I want to know. You need to talk to her."

Gone was the exuberant, boyish energy he'd displayed only moments before; as he spoke now, Will looked tired, and weary. For the first time, Harry was forced to admit that Will was a boy no more. He was a man grown, and he was worried for his mother, for this woman he knew so well. In his heart, Harry was terribly proud of Will, for his insight into the situation, and his quick thinking in the sitting room. And he was grateful, too, for the advice that Will offered. Always before when Ruth had closed herself off from him Harry had allowed her as much space as she claimed to need, and they never seemed to say the things that really needed saying. They had lost so many opportunities, because Ruth was hesitant and Harry was too afraid of losing her to address the problems that separated them. Perhaps the boy was right; perhaps, just the once, he needed to push for more.

"She'll be cross with the both of us," he grumbled halfheartedly.

"Oh no," Will laughed. "It'll be you she's cross with. That woman thinks the sun shines out of my arse."

Harry couldn't help it; he gave a short bark of laughter at those was such a godsend, in this moment, offering reassurance, reminding Harry that not everything was doom and gloom. There was still a bright spot in the world, still room for hope in the heart of a battered old spook. Will said she needed to talk, and Harry was determined to let her.

"Right then, here you go," Will said, turning to him with two mugs in his hands. "This one's yours, and this is hers," he said as he handed them over. If he hadn't been so bloody nervous, Harry would have smiled at that, smiled to see that Will knew how both of them took their tea. _A splash of milk for her, and entirely too much sugar for me,_ he thought. "And I'm going to bed."

"Wait, Will, I don't think-" Harry started to protest, but Will cut him off.

"Talk to her, mate," he said, and then he slipped away, leaving Harry alone in the kitchen with two cups of tea and no idea how he was going to proceed.

* * *

"Here we are, then," Harry said as he came back to the sitting room. Ruth was standing by the window, her back turned toward him, and she started violently at the sound of his voice. "I didn't mean to scare you," he said softly as he offered her a mug of tea.

"I really don't think this is a good idea," Ruth told him sadly, but she took the mug anyway. As she watched, Harry settled himself down in one of her armchairs, loosening his tie with a sigh of deep contentment.

 _Why won't you leave? Please, Harry, please, just leave me alone._

"It'll get cold, if you don't drink it now," he said.

How could he sit there, speaking to her as if everything were normal, as if she hadn't told him only a few hours before that she loved him, as if he hadn't heard her screaming as she watched the man who could have been her husband shot through the head as payment for her sins?

"I want you to leave, Harry," she said firmly. _It's still my bloody house,_ she thought.

"I think we need to talk, Ruth," he countered. "And besides, I doubt either of us are going to get any sleep tonight, one way or another. We might as well keep each other company."

It surprised her, the way her stomach did a little summersault at those words. Ruth knew he didn't mean anything untoward, but still, the implication was there. In another life, Ruth had dreamt of keeping company with Harry in the dark of the night, had dedicated entirely too much time to the thought of his lips, to wondering how it would feel to have him skim his broad, strong hands across her skin. She berated herself for indulging in such thoughts now, when George was dead and her life was in tatters.

Despite her misgivings she took a seat on the sofa, and sipped her tea in a stony silence.

* * *

For a long time, Ruth was silent, watching him accusingly over the rim of her mug. Harry had not anticipated this; when he'd come to her tonight, he'd briefly entertained the notion that she might be happy to see him. It was Ruth, after all, who had spoken of love in that dingy warehouse, Ruth who had confessed that though George shared her bed, he did not share her heart. Why then was she so reluctant to speak to him now?

Harry turned it over and over in his mind, considered everything he knew about Ruth, and tried to come up with some possible rationale for her behavior. If he only knew what she was thinking, then he might be able to reassure her. The truth was he loved her, loved her desperately, had the last two years longing for her, and now that she was here, he wanted nothing more than to tell her so. But was now the moment? Did she really want to hear those words?

"How did you find out about him, Harry? Will, I mean."

The sound of her voice surprised him; Harry had been certain that he would need to be the one who would have to break the silence. The words Will had spoken to him in the kitchen came back to him then; perhaps she did need to talk, after all.

"The night after you…left, I came round here, to collect the cats, and he was here," Harry confessed.

Ruth chuckled ruefully at that. "I asked Zaf not to tell you. I should have known it wouldn't be so easy."

Her words had touched a nerve; there was a question he had been dying to ask her, a question that had been eating away at the very heart of him from the moment he first met Will, and he could not stop that question from spilling out now.

"Why did you do that, Ruth? Why didn't you tell me about him?"

As soon as he spoke he regretted it; he was certain he had been too blunt, too demanding, and just as certain that Ruth would shut down entirely, and any progress they had made would vanish in a moment as she once more walled her heart away from him.

Once again, though, she surprised him.

Ruth took a long sip from her tea, regarding him thoughtfully all the while, and when she spoke, her voice was soft and hesitating, not angry and hard like he had expected.

"What did Will tell you, about his father?"

What little hope had risen in Harry's chest at the sound of her voice promptly withered and died, and despair took its place. This was not something he had counted on discussing with her tonight, and though he was not willing to lie to her, he was just as unwilling to face the truth, to face what he had done in that cell deep in the bowels of Connie's pseudo-dungeon. Now was not the time for facing that particular demon, though Davie King's bloody face seemed to dance at him in the shadows of Ruth's sitting room.

"Enough," he said gently. It was such a personal thing, this piece of Ruth's past, and Harry wanted to treat it, to treat _her_ , carefully.

Ruth sighed. "People treat me differently once they find out, Harry," she told him in a sad little voice. "I can't bear it, having to tell the story over and over again. I want to put it behind me. And you wouldn't believe the things people say, when they find out how old he is. When I was at school…" she lost her voice for a moment, her eyes far away as she travelled back in her memories. Harry hated watching her like this, hated seeing the pain on her dear, sweet face, but he knew they needed to have this conversation. He owed her that much. "It was easier, not to say anything. And when I started working with Five…I wanted that job so badly, Harry, and I was so worried that if people knew I had a child at home I wouldn't get it. I didn't want to be trapped at GCHQ forever. So yes, I lied. And then I kept lying, because I didn't want anyone…didn't want _you_ to treat me differently, because of him."

And what could he say to that? Somewhere, deep in his heart, he did understand. She was frightened, she was trying to build a better life for herself, and she had worried that he would not care for her in the same way, if he knew the secrets she harbored. Perhaps it was time for him to share some secrets of his own.

* * *

"Do you know that my son is only two years older than yours, Ruth?" Harry asked her.

 _Oh Christ,_ Ruth thought sadly. She did know, actually; she had taken a tour through his personnel file, and there were dates of birth for both his children listed there. Will and Graham were exactly two years apart; by some twist of fate, their sons shared the same birthday. It had struck her as odd, when she'd discovered it all those years before, but now it only made her sad. This would be the moment when it happened, then, she realized; this would be the moment when Harry's sympathy for her outweighed everything else, when he ceased to see her as a woman he might have once desired, and saw her only as a sad little thing to be pitied and consoled. She hated it.

"Our sons are very nearly the same age," Harry continued, "and I have to tell you, I think yours turned out better than mine."

Whatever Ruth had been expecting him to say, it certainly wasn't that. She turned to him sharply, watching him closely for any signs of deceit, but his gaze was honest and open. "I was never there for my son, when he needed me, and he suffered for it. What you've done, raising Will all on your own, is nothing short of remarkable. You should be proud of him."

His words were not patronizing or condescending in any way, and Ruth loved him for it. Truly she did; she had fallen for him long ago, but to hear him speak this way now, to reveal to her to so honestly not just his thoughts about her son but his concerns about his own child as well warmed her heart. For so long she had believed that telling Harry the truth about Will would be the end of everything between them, but as she sat here with him now, she began to see a way through. Always in the past fear had stayed her tongue, had left her reticent and uncertain, but perhaps Harry was brave enough for the pair of them.

"I wouldn't trade him, not for anything," she said softly, meaning every word.

Silence fell, a somewhat awkward, not entirely uncomfortable silence as they both contemplated the words they had spoken. Ruth was bone-weary, and she felt almost as if she had slipped out of time, as if her own feelings of pain and loss and guilt were tumbling away from her, replaced with the warm sort of lassitude that only came from being alone with this man she loved. Every moment she sent in his company seemed to bolster her confidence, seemed to remind her why she had felt so much for him, so strongly, why she had been willing to sacrifice herself for him. She would happily have stayed there with him until the sun came up, and for his part Harry made no attempt to leave her.


	44. Chapter 44

When Ruth woke the next morning, she found herself safe and warm beneath the duvet in her little house in London. She lay there for a long time, staring around her room in the faint light streaming in from behind the blinds on the windows. The sun had risen, and it cast a cheery glow on everything in sight, giving the moment an ethereal, picturesque quality.

Her room was almost precisely as she had left it, more than two years before. Her jewelry was still scattered across the dressertop, her books still crammed onto the shelves, her shoes still piled in an untidy heap by the door. The room was clean, though; there was no dust, no heavy scent of mothballs in the air. This house, and everything in it, had been well cared for, and she had to wonder at that. Will had never been particularly fastidious, a trait he'd inherited from his sometimes scatterbrained mother, and she couldn't imagine him taking the time to tidy up in a room he never used.

As she slowly dragged herself into wakefulness, the events of the previous day washed over her, and she slid back beneath the duvet, curling herself into a tight little ball and trying not to weep. Harry had been lovely, more lovely than she could ever have imagined, and the sight of him embracing her son warmed her heart. But beneath that joy there came a nearly endless spring of guilt, drowning her happiness as the image of Harry and Will faded, replaced by George instead. George, whom she had not loved, George, whom she had doomed.

 _What have I done?_ She asked herself as the tears finally broke free. _What have I done?_

Ruth knew she had not been the one to give the order, had not been the one to wield the gun, but she had been the one to put George in danger. The moment she had insinuated herself into his life, seeking shelter and not the love he offered her, she had painted a target on his back. If only she had been braver, if only she had been stronger, if only she had continued on her own, instead of building a fantasy of a life with him, he would still be alive and well. Perhaps he could have found a woman, a woman who would have cared for him, a woman would have given him the child he wanted, and perhaps he could have been happy, had she not selfishly claimed him for herself.

How could she face herself? How could she look at herself in the mirror, knowing what she had done, knowing that a good man was dead because of her? How could she continue on, how could she harbor such hopes for herself, for Harry, when the memory of George's death was as fresh as if it had only happened moments before? He was less than twenty-four hours dead, and Ruth found she did not miss him. She did not long for his touch, did not wish to see his face. There was no grief, only this endless tide of guilt.

 _You have to get up,_ she told herself sternly, even as she lingered in her bed. _Will is here, and he needs you._ For as much horror as she had endured, over the last few days, she knew her son had faced his own battles, and she knew that it was her responsibility to look after him, to make sure that he was well after his ordeal. They had not spoken of it the night before, for which she was grateful; she needed to be strong for Will, needed to be brave for him, and it would not do to have her falling to pieces in front of him.

She and Harry had not spoken of it either; or at least, she didn't think they had. Her memories of the night before were hazy. That Harry had brought her tea, that he had spoken to her gently, that they had discussed their sons; she remembered all of this clearly. She remembered, too, stretching out on the sofa, remembered the weariness overcoming her. What she could not recall was how their conversation ended. She had no memories of Harry's departure, or of how she had made it upstairs to her room. There was only darkness, after a certain point, and that galled her. For so long she had missed him, had dearly wished she could speak to him again, and she hated the thought that she had forgotten even a moment of their reunion.

 _Up you get,_ she told herself, shaking off that regret and shuffling off to her bathroom. It didn't matter, really, what she might or might not have said to Harry. What mattered was Will, and his safety, and his happiness. She and Harry would sort themselves out, eventually. First she needed to see her son.

* * *

When she made her way downstairs, she stopped for a moment just outside the kitchen, feeling equal parts bemused and elated at the sound of the voices that greeted her.

"Did you sleep all right?" Will was saying, and it was Harry's voice that answered him.

"Well enough. That sofa is surprisingly comfortable."

 _Harry slept on my sofa?_ She wondered. _What on earth?_

"Pull the other one, mate," Will answered, chuckling. "It's a bloody nightmare. It's a miracle you're walking this morning, honestly."

"I was so tired last night, I think I would have been perfectly happy sleeping on the floor."

They were quiet for a moment, and Ruth shifted uneasily in the hallway, biting her lip as she debated with herself about entering the kitchen. She wanted to see her son, wanted to pull him into her arms and hold him, wanted to know that he was real, that she was home, that they were both alive and well. There was a part of her that wanted to wait, however, a part of her that was intensely curious about the connection between Harry and her son, a part of her that wanted to take this opportunity to observe them undetected, to see what sort of relationship they had forged for themselves. It was an old dream of hers, seeing the pair of them together, and she longed to know if this dream had become a reality.

"How is she?" Will asked softly. Ruth could hear the sounds of a chair scraping back against the floor, of one of them settling into it. She could hear the clinking of mugs and plates, and the smell of bacon reached her; they were sharing breakfast together, Harry and Will. They were having breakfast in her kitchen. This thought made her so happy that she nearly turned and ran back up the stairs; what right did she have to be happy, after everything she'd done?

"It's hard to say," Harry answered finally. "She's a remarkable woman, your mother. But she has a gentle heart, and I think she blames herself."

 _Right, that's enough of that,_ Ruth thought bleakly, stealing herself to enter the kitchen. As much as she might have enjoyed knowing that the pair of them felt comfortable enough to have such a conversation over bacon and tea, she was not willing to allow them to continue to discuss her, to analyze her private thoughts, without repercussion.

* * *

Harry jumped to his feet, the moment Ruth entered the kitchen, looking a bit guilty as he faced her in the broad light of day. Will grinned, just a little, watching the way they warily appraised one another. The tips of Harry's ears were tinged pink; no doubt he felt a bit embarrassed at having been caught out in her kitchen so early in the morning, and talking about her so honestly, to boot. To Will's mind, it was the best thing that could have happened; Harry always spoke about Ruth with a certain sense of awe, and he thought it was important that she hear it, that she know just how deep Harry's regard for her ran.

"Harry," she said quietly, twisting her hands together uncomfortably as she stood there in the doorway.

"Good morning, Ruth," he answered in a gentle tone of voice. The tension between the pair of them was almost unbearable; if the situation had been different, Will might have groaned aloud, to let them know just how ridiculous he thought all their dancing around one another was. Harry loved Ruth, Ruth cared for Harry; why couldn't they just sit down and eat breakfast like normal people? _Because George is dead, and they haven't seen each other in two bloody years, I suppose._

He took it upon himself to break the silence. "Mum," he said, rising to his feet and crossing the kitchen to peck her on the cheek. "There's bacon, if you want it. Go on, have a seat, I'll bring you a plate."

When she did not move he gave her a little nudge, and turned away. He plated up the bacon, and poured her tea, his ears trained on her all the while, listening for some sign of an impending diatribe. It took a moment, but eventually Ruth gave up, and took a seat at the table. Will hid his triumphant little grin as he worked, keeping his back resolutely turned towards them.

So far, he thought his plan was working. Ruth had slept the whole night through, and whatever she and Harry had talked about the night before, Harry had stayed over, had felt comfortable enough to linger there in her little house, and now they were all going to eat breakfast together.

It seemed to Will that this was how things ought to be. He had spent the last two years getting to know the man currently sitting at his mother's table, and he had grown quite fond of Harry as a result. Harry was kind, reserved and a bit old fashioned at times, but he had always welcomed Will with open arms. He liked to watch cricket on Sunday afternoons, and he shamelessly spoiled his little dog and Ruth's troublesome cats alike. He had a darker side, too, of course he did, given his job, but Will felt this was a good thing, given all that Ruth had experienced. Who else could possibly understand her and everything she'd been through, like someone who had walked the same path?

It was in his mind to throw the pair of them together, and to continue to do so until they were forced to talk to one another, properly, until they were forced to admit what everyone around them already knew. They were meant for each other, these two. A few times over the years Ruth had felt confident enough to bring a boyfriend home to meet Will, but none of those men had responded to him the way that Harry had. None of them had made room in their lives for him, none of them had accepted this part of Ruth's life so readily, and none of them had hung around for very long. Harry was different, and Will knew it. He could only hope that in time, Ruth would see it, too.

* * *

 _This is bloody uncomfortable,_ Harry thought as he sat at the table, staring at Ruth sitting across from him. He found he could not take his eyes from her face, searching for some sign that she was happy to see him, happy to have him there in her home. It had not been his intention to stay over, the night before, but after he had helped a very sleepy Ruth mount the stairs and tumble into her bed, he found he did not want to leave. He could not bear the thought of calling a taxi and dragging himself across town, not when everything he wanted, everything he needed, was here in this little house. So he had laid himself down on her sofa, covered himself with a blanket, and stayed the night there. It was presumptuous, he knew, but even as he drifted off to sleep he was forced to admit that the first thing he wanted to do upon waking was to see her again. If he was only going to rush right back over here first thing in the morning, it made a certain amount of sense to save himself the time, and stay the night.

And so he did.

And now he was here, _she_ was here, and he found he had no idea what to say to her. He wanted to ask her how she was feeling about George, wanted to determine how deep her grief and her guilt ran, wanted to assuage her fears in that regard. He longed to unburden himself to her, to tell her of everything that had happened in her absence, to confess to the murder of Davie King, and to accept whatever judgment she chose to throw at him. They had been honest with one another, the night before. For perhaps the first time in their entire relationship, they had each said precisely what they were thinking, and Harry wanted to continue in that way with her. He wanted to share his heart with her, wanted the same from her, wanted everything. The only problem was, he had no idea how to go about it.

"There we are," Will said, carefully placing a plateful of bacon and a steaming cup of tea in front of his mum before returning to his chair. He beamed at the pair of them, looking for all the world like a little boy on Christmas, and Harry fought the urge to sigh. This was not something he had counted on; he had not anticipated Will being so eager to throw them together like this. _Maybe that's a good thing,_ he thought as he watched Ruth smile tentatively at her son before tucking into her breakfast. _If it weren't for his meddling, I wouldn't be here right now._

And Harry was grateful to have found himself sharing breakfast with Ruth and her son on this particular morning. He no longer had to wonder if she was safe, if she was well; he could see for himself that she was. He no longer had to wonder how Will was getting on, without his mum there to guide him; she was here, and the boy was smiling. It was quite nice, he thought as he took a sip of his tea, to sit here at this table as if it were the most normal thing in the world, as if it were something that they did every day. He would quite like for this to become a part of his routine, but he promptly chided himself for having such a thought. Ruth had only just returned to him, and much remained to be seen. Perhaps she did not want him here, and was only allowing him to stay for Will's sake. He discarded that idea after a moment's consideration; she had spoken to him so warmly the night before, had smiled at him so gently as he covered her with the duvet and slipped out of her room. It seemed to him that she had been happy to have him in her home, the night before, and he could only hope that she still felt the same in the harsh light of day.

And so he said nothing, and sipped his tea, and waited for Ruth to speak.

* * *

The silence had grown so embarrassingly awkward that Will felt there was really only one option left to him. He rose to his feet, collected his plate and his mug, and made his way to the sink.

"Right, I need a shower," he said as he dropped his dishes with a clatter.

His mum spun around in her chair, looking practically mortified. Her eyes seemed pleading, seemed to beg him to stay, not to leave her alone with Harry, but Will was having none of it. Perhaps they might communicate more effectively, without him there to make them cautious. Perhaps not. Either way, he _did_ need a shower, and he had no desire to spend the morning wrapped up in a contemplative, useless silence.

"We need to talk, Will," Ruth said seriously.

 _That's the bloody truth,_ he thought _._ "And we will," he assured her. "Once I've had my shower."

And with that he offered her a tight grin, and then promptly departed. _Come on, Harry,_ he thought as he thundered up the stairs. _Be brave, mate._

* * *

Ruth looked at Harry, wondering what on earth was going through his mind. Had he noticed the way Will kept throwing them together? He wasn't exactly being discrete about it.

"I think your son is playing matchmaker," Harry observed wryly.

Ruth promptly choked on her bacon.

So he had noticed then, she realized as she quickly took a sip of her tea, trying to clear her thoughts. _What the hell am I supposed to say to that?_

"I am sorry, Ruth," Harry confessed, leaning towards her across the table, his eyes dark and sad. "I'm sorry for everything, really."

 _For George._ As always, Ruth could hear the words that Harry refused to say.

It seemed to Ruth that they had come to a crossroads. The night before they had cleared the air, as regarded Ruth's deception about Will, but they had not yet touched on the most painful part of their reunion. They had not spoken about George, not since that moment in the warehouse when she had revealed the awful truth of her heart to him. They had not spoken about her quiet declaration of love, and the way it had doomed them. But Harry was not willing to let it lie, was not willing to let the pain they had suffered go unaddressed. She had a choice here, she realized. She could politely refuse to engage, she could send him on his way with assurances that everything was fine and that she would seem him later, when she came into Thames House for the requisite debriefing. Or she could be brave, for once, could face herself and him and all the quiet longing that for so long had gone unacknowledged between them. It was a momentous choice, she knew. Whatever she said to him would set the tone for all their interactions to come. He had made his overtures, and now he was, as ever, waiting for her to decide what she wanted.

"It isn't your fault, Harry," she said softly, refusing to meet his gaze. It wasn't his fault, and she knew it. Perhaps it might have been easier, if she had blamed him, and perhaps she might have, if he had not come to her last night, if he had not spoken to her so warmly, if he had not embraced her son and shown her how much he cared. Perhaps she might have blamed him, to protect herself from her own guilt. Now though, sitting with him in her kitchen, watching him, watching her, knowing that in her absence he had assumed responsibility for Will and treated him kindly, she found she could not blame him for anything, not for a moment of it. She could not blame him for Cotterdam, could not blame him for Mani, could not blame him for George. _Maybe neither of us ought to feel guilty,_ she thought as she saw a soft smile spread across his face. _Maybe some things are beyond our control._

"I am sorry, just the same," he told her.

There were so many things Ruth wanted to tell him, in that moment, but the words would not come. When she finally did speak, she immediately regretted it.

"I ought to call George's sister, tell her what's happened."

Harry leaned back in his chair, his face darkening momentarily as he considered her words. Had she wounded him? she wondered. It was not her intent to hurt him, to respond to his kindness with thoughts of another man. It just seemed to her that there was so very much to do; she needed to call Sophia, and she needed to determine if it was safe for her to stay in this country and she needed, very much, to spend as much time as possible in Harry's comforting presence.

"I could arrange to have someone else do it, if you're not feeling up to it," Harry offered hesitantly, but Ruth just shook her head.

"It should be me. I know her. I owe her that much."

Harry nodded, and dropped his gaze down to his half-empty mug of tea.

* * *

"Where do we go from here, Harry?" she asked him in a timid little voice. She sounded so frightened, so small, and he found himself fighting a sudden urge to rise to his feet, to go to her and wrap her up in his arms and never, ever let her go. It wasn't fair, wasn't right, that she should have suffered so much. He wasn't sure what she meant, exactly, wasn't sure if she was asking what they were supposed to do, now that she was back and they found themselves together again, or if her question was more practical in nature, if she were asking how they ought to proceed, given her status as a dead woman. He chose the second interpretation, finding himself unwilling and unable to face a conversation about what the future might hold for them personally.

"The Home Secretary owes me a favor," he admitted, thinking of the Davie King debacle. The HS had very nearly allowed Harry and his team to be murdered on British soil, and he had yet to atone for that grave error in judgment. Oliver Mace and his cronies had vanished into the ether, and Harry was confident that with a bit of wheedling and browbeating he could obtain a pardon and papers for Ruth. "It may take some time, but I think it's safe to say that you can have your old life back." _If you want it,_ he added silently. He watched her carefully, saw her nod, saw the corners of her mouth tick up in an almost-smile.

"I'd like that," she told him quietly. "Do you have to go to work today?"

 _Christ this is strange,_ he thought, smiling. There was something terribly domestic about her asking that question as they sat together sipping lukewarm tea at her table. There was something comfortable, something _right_ about them sharing their space and their time and their lives like this. It was everything Harry had hoped for, back before Cotterdam. It seemed too good to be true.

"Only for a few hours, for the official debrief. I've been ordered to stay home for the next few days, and I think that, just this once, I'm going to take the opportunity to spend a few days at home. I must be getting old," he added wryly, feeling the aches and pains in his body as a result of his time spent in captivity.

"Hardly," Ruth said. She promptly turned scarlet and dropped her gaze from his face, but not before he saw the appraising look she gave him. He nearly preened, to see her staring at him with such open regard. His face was stubbly and unshaven, his shirt was wrinkled, and he knew he was not at his best, but still she had, for just a moment, let him catch a glimpse of her desire for him, and that bolstered his confidence.

He wanted to tell her that she was beautiful, that she had always been beautiful, that he wanted nothing in this world so much as to kiss her, but he held his tongue. There would be other moments, over the next few days. In coming to her home, and speaking to her as he had dreamt of for so very long, he had accomplished more than he had ever hoped. Perhaps this was enough for now. They would all need to make their way to Thames House, and he knew that spending a few hours going over every detail of their ordeal would require a great deal of emotional energy from all three of them. And so he decided not to pressure her, not to ask for anything more than what he had already been given.

"Thank you for breakfast," he said, somewhat inanely. "And for the use of your sofa."

"You're welcome here, any time, Harry." She smiled up at him shyly, and he felt a great sense of hope, blossoming in his chest.

* * *

"I need to go home, have a shave and see to the animals," he said, running one hand across his chin in a speculative sort of gesture. Ruth felt a pang of regret, at his words; firstly that he would have to leave her, and secondly that he was insisting on a shave. It had obviously been quite some time, since last he'd shaved, and she found that the scruffy look suited him. It made him look...roguish, she thought, in a way that made her want to fold herself into his arms and brush her lips against his jaw. She found her guilt receding, the more time she spent in his company; however she might blame herself for George's loss, she knew that Harry did not hold her accountable for it, and in some way that helped her. If Harry could forgive her, for everything that had happened, for turning to another man for comfort and release, then perhaps she could forgive herself, too.

His words sunk in slowly, as she mused about the nature of love, the nature of forgiveness, and then the implication struck her all at once.

"My cats?" she asked hopefully. In truth, she had given them little thought since her return, but now she found she missed them, and the thought of having them back underfoot once more was quite appealing.

"Alive and well," he assured her, smiling.

 _So he adopted them after all,_ she thought, warmth flooding her chest at the realization. Harry had taken her cats in, had done everything she'd ever asked of him, and the urge to fling herself into his arms rose up unbidden once more. _What a dear man he is._ Ruth wasn't sure she deserved such thoughtfulness, not after everything that had happened, but she was grateful for it, just the same.

"I'll come and fetch you and Will, when it's time for us to go," he continued. "But when we're finished, perhaps we can go and collect them. I'm sure they missed you," he added, and she thought she saw in his eyes a flicker of something else, some other, deeper meaning behind his words. She did not question it; the understanding that had sprung up between them here at her table was tentative and fragile, and she was determined not to push it, lest she shatter their newfound regard for one another.

"That would be lovely," she said.


	45. Chapter 45

The afternoon Will spent deep in the heart of Thames House was perhaps the most surreal experience of his entire life. For years now he had known the truth, known that his mother had worked for MI-5, that Harry himself was the _boss spook,_ and he had known the cost of the work they did. He had lost his mother, he had watched as Harry lost Zaf and Adam Carter, had sat with little Wes, who was orphaned because of the work his parents did. This was part of his reality now; Will had met the spooks, had come to know their names and their faces if not their stories, and he knew that what they did was dangerous. Still, though, it had all seemed very far away. It was what _they_ did, it was nothing to do with _him._

And then he was taken, kidnapped from his home, struck in the back of the head, held for ransom in exchange for something he could not comprehend. He had met a man called George, a man his mother had married, and he had shared his tea and his time with him. And then, in the blinking of an eye, George was dead, murdered by shadowy people whose names Will would never know.

In all the furor surrounding his mother's return, and all of his relief and all of his joy, Will was ashamed to realize just how quickly he had forgotten about George. He'd never truly known the man, had not witnessed his demise, had not seen the ambulance come and load up his body to cart it off to the morgue. It was not until that afternoon, as he sat in a quiet little room relaying his experiences to Jo, that the true horror of it all began to sink in. He was ashamed, for forgetting all about George, and he was ashamed too for the way he had acted towards his mother, pushing her towards Harry when she must surely be grieving the loss of the life she'd lived in Cyprus.

Jo finished the interview, and fetched a cup of tea for him, and sat awkwardly with him as they waited for Harry and Ruth to finish their own sorry tales. It took them much longer than it had taken Will; no doubt they had been through much more than he had, though he did not want to think about that just now. As he waited he looked at Jo, who was young and kind and had the saddest eyes he'd ever seen, and he berated himself for being so foolish, so naïve. He'd gotten it into his mind somehow that now that his mum was back, everything would be fine. She would go back to work and she and Harry would fall into place and Will would return to the bookshop with his sense of normalcy restored; that was his dream. It was only a dream though, he realized. He still had so many questions, and he feared the answers.

* * *

In the end it was Ros who took Ruth's statement. There was something sort of appropriate about that, Ruth thought ruefully as she took her place at the little table in the interview room where her debriefing was to take place. Appropriate that it was Ros who should have to sit and hear what Ruth had endured upon her return, considering that it was Ros who had sold Ruth down the river to Mace all those years before. Oh, Ruth knew that Ros was not the only one to blame, that Mace and his ilk would have found a way to frame her with or without Ros's intervention, but still, Ros had made it easy for them.

 _Has she changed_? Ruth wondered as she began to speak in a halting little voice. _Has she warmed to her colleagues at all? Has she learned what it is to dedicate yourself to something bigger than your own ambitions?_

This was not an easy story to tell, and Ruth fumbled over her words a bit. She had to explain how Mani's men had come to her little villa, how she had spirited George out of Cyprus, how Hillier and his cronies had found her, separated her from George. And then came the worst part; how could she possible relay the truth of what had happened in that warehouse, and to Ros of all people? It wasn't just that Mani had demanded the uranium in exchange for the lives of these people Ruth loved; so much more had happened in that little room. Ruth had found Harry again, had sacrificed her own beliefs for her son, had felt as if the beating heart had been ripped from her chest and laid open for Harry to see.

"Why did they choose Will?" Ros asked after a time. "Do you know? Wouldn't it have made more sense to choose Harry's daughter, or his son? Why his nephew?"

Ruth dropped her eyes from Ros's face and twisted the hem of her blouse between her fingers. By now she had taken stock, and realized that while Jo and Malcolm and Harry had known the truth about Will, they had kept her secret well, and it had not become common knowledge. Ros was prying now, though, and if Ruth told her, not only would she have just revealed her biggest weakness to someone who had betrayed her in the past, she would also be entering Will's existence, and her own treachery, into MI-5's records.

 _I'm still dead,_ she reminded herself sternly. _If they want to arrest me for hacking their servers, they'll have a hard time doing it._

"They chose Will because he's my son," Ruth said softly.

In the silence that followed this pronouncement Ruth fancied she could hear the sound of her own heart beating, pounding madly against her chest. She waited for Ros's scorn, her derision, her disbelief, but it never came. Tentatively Ruth raised her head, and found Ros staring at her with a speculative look on her face.

"He favors you," Ros said.

And that was that. Ros did not pry, did not ask any more questions about Will or where he'd come from or why Ruth had lied, and Ruth was grateful for it. Whatever else she might be, Ros had always been a private person, and Ruth appreciated that particular quality of hers, just now.

* * *

Harry delivered his report to Lucas North, of all people. It was beyond strange, sitting in that room across from this man whom he had so recently accused of betrayal, telling this story of trauma and loss. Lucas didn't ask many questions; he didn't need to. Harry had been in the covert intelligence business for most of his adult life, and he knew which details Lucas needed, and which he didn't. Lucas needed to know if the uranium was still in the country, if Mani and his men had come any where near it; he didn't need to know how the sound of Ruth's anguished screams still lingered in Harry's ears.

The beautiful morning he'd spent in her kitchen had faded in his mind as the grim reality began to set in once more. George was dead, and Ruth was surely grieving, and Harry had no idea how to help her. It would take time, he knew, for her to heal, and time for him to sort out her status and have her brought back to life, as it were. And while that was happening, he would need to go back to work, to face once more the dangers and the irritations and the constant disappointments that made up the life of an intelligence officer. Ben Kaplan was dead, Connie was dead and a traitor, to boot. Would Ruth want to come back to this? He wondered. Would she want to face this world of darkness again, when for so long she had been living in the sun? And if she didn't, how could he bear to go on, knowing that she was back in London and he was oath-bound not to speak to her, once she was no longer working for the service?

He couldn't stand the thought of it, of not speaking to Ruth, not seeing her. Once she was officially alive again, though, he knew that the powers that be would be keeping a close eye on him; he'd very nearly gone to prison, just to save her the same fate, and they would want to be sure that he was not tempted to do something equally rash now that she was home. Section X, those quiet men who watch the watchers, they would hound his steps, and retribution for misconduct would be swift.

 _Is it worth it?_ He wondered. _Is doing this job worth it, if I can never see her again?_

The question galled him. It was selfish, he knew, to expect her to return to work as if nothing had happened, but the alternative was intolerable.

* * *

The sun had set, by the time they made their way out of Thames House. All three of them piled into Harry's Range Rover, with Harry himself behind the wheel and Ruth sat beside him. She had missed this, she thought with a fond, tired little smile. She had missed sitting beside him, in briefings, at his desk, at _her_ desk. She had missed the comfort of his presence, and the sheer exhilaration of speaking to him, this man who knew her mind, knew her heart, so very well.

Talking to Ros had been cathartic, in a way. Though she had tried her best to be clinical in her descriptions, Ruth had been forced to face everything she'd gone through, and she found her guilt receding, slightly. As she recounted every moment of her captivity she was sharply reminded how very little control she'd exercised over any of those events. Though she still wasn't sure how Mani and his goons had found her, she knew it wasn't her fault, not truly, and she knew she could have done nothing to prevent it. And yes, she knew she should not have given in, should not have told Mani that the uranium was in Norfolk, but she had done that to save George's life. There was no way for her to know that George was doomed anyway, that Harry had moved the uranium. And Harry himself was not to blame, for moving it; she shuddered to think what would have happened if he hadn't. _We've already looked in that place that you said,_ Mani had told her; if Harry hadn't moved it, Mani would have been able to build the dirty bomb, with no help from Harry or Ruth.

 _We were all just pawns in someone else's game,_ she thought sadly.

All three of them were quiet, as they drove to Harry's house. Before they'd made their way to Thames House, Harry had agreed to take her to pick up her cats, and though they were all of them a bit shaken by the afternoon's events, they had not deviated from this plan.

 _I'm going to Harry's house,_ she thought, smiling just a little. She'd never been to Harry's before. Never, not once. He'd come to hers, before. The night that Gary Hicks turned up at her door, trouble following in his wake. The night he drove her home after their dinner, and kissed her on the doorstep. The day that Mik Mauldsley died, and he helped her make tea, and smiled at her so gently. _And the night I left, when he went round to collect the cats, and met Will instead._

Ruth dearly wished she could have been there for that first meeting. She could only imagine how shocked they must have been, the pair of them, to discover each other in that house. _How strange must this all seem to Will?_ She wondered. _And how can I even begin to explain it to him?_

* * *

A delicate sort of tension had developed, as they drove along. Harry could feel it tingling at the back of his neck, could practically feel the wheels turning in Ruth's mind, though he could not begin to imagine what she must be thinking. He chanced a glance at her, as they came to a stop out front of his house; she had this strange little smile on her face as she gazed up at his home. A smile that was as bewitching as it was befuddling; _there's precious little to smile about just now, Ruth,_ he thought.

Will slouched out of the car, hands tucked in his pockets, and Ruth made to follow him. Harry watched the pair of them, as they made their way up the front walk. Ruth was smiling, and Will was taciturn; this was quite a strange turn of events, as far as Harry was concerned.

They made quite the pair, Ruth and her son. He was so much taller than she was, and yet he deferred to her in everything, treating her with a warm sort of affection that made Harry glad to see it. For so long he had believed that Ruth had nothing and no one in her life, no one to love her, no one to bring her joy, and he was relieved to know how wrong he had been. It was clear that Will adored her, and that she loved him just as fiercely, and however rocky his beginnings might have been, Harry was grateful that they'd had each other.

 _I wouldn't trade him, not for anything,_ Ruth had told him. Harry thought he could understand that; he had two children of his own, and however fraught their relationships might be, he knew what it was to love a child. His children were a part of him, living, breathing pieces of his heart, and it hurt him, just a little, to watch Will's quiet affection for his mum, and to be reminded of just how poorly he had treated his own children. He was trying, though; he'd made great strides with Catherine, thanks in no small part to Will. _And Graham will come, with time,_ he reminded himself. He hadn't given up on his son; he never would.

* * *

Once they were inside, Will flopped down on the sofa, and Scarlet leapt up into lap, and immediately began to lick at his face, vying for his attentions. He smiled, just a little as he scratched her ears and she gazed up at him adoringly. It was nice to be back at Harry's, and nicer still to see his mum there. She stood in the doorway to the sitting room, twisting her hands together the way she did when she was nervous and didn't know what to say.

The moggies had discovered Ruth, and they raced across the room to greet her, winding themselves around her ankles until she bent and scooped them both into her arms. For a moment Will was worried that she was about to cry; she looked quite overwhelmed as she folded herself into Harry's favorite armchair and held her little cats close.

"They missed you, I think," Will told her softly, thinking how much he and Harry had missed her, and hoping she understood his meaning.

"I missed them," she answered. And Will heard what she didn't say, that it wasn't just the cats she had missed, that it was her whole bloody life. He hoped she was happy to be back; he was so bloody relieved to see her again that he still almost couldn't quite believe that she was real.

"How about some supper, then?" Harry asked as he joined them, leaning up against the doorframe and smiling around at all of them.

It seemed a nice way to end the day, just as they had started it, and Will readily agreed. For a moment he thought his mum might protest, might insist that she call a taxi, that she and Will shouldn't impose on Harry any longer than was strictly necessary. But Will knew she had no money to pay for a taxi, and he recognized the look on her face. She had no desire to leave, and for once, she said precisely what she was thinking.

"That would be lovely, Harry," she said.

* * *

Dinner was a restrained affair; they were all three of them still so tired, and still so uncertain of where they stood with one another, that they spoke but little. What could they say, anyway? Harry wondered. He refused point blank to discuss anything that had happened in the warehouse with Will; some of what had passed between himself and Ruth was intensely private, and he respected her quiet reserve too much to push her to discuss it in front of her son. And some of it was too horrible; Will didn't need to know how close he had come to dying himself, didn't need to know how Harry had gambled with his life.

Ruth insisted on helping with the washing up, once their meal was through, and Harry tried to fight back the elation that filled him as they stood together at the sink, washing dishes and smiling shyly at one another. Her hair framed her face in soft curls, longer than when he'd last seen her, and she stood so close to him that he was forced to remember just how small she was, just how easily she fit within the circle of his arms.

 _This is dangerous,_ he told himself. He wanted it, wanted _her,_ too badly, and he was frightened of his own desires. How could he possibly hope to restrain himself, to keep from confessing that there was nothing in the world he wanted so much as to be a part of her life, to be a member of her little family?

"Christ, I'm shattered," Will said, yawning as he sprawled out in his chair by the table.

"Why don't you lie down on the sofa, love?" Ruth suggested. "We'll be finished soon, and then we can go home."

"You don't have to, you know," Harry said softly, kicking himself the moment the words passed his lips.

Ruth whipped around to face him so quickly she nearly dropped the plate she was holding. Harry reached out to catch it all unthinking, his fingertips brushing across her skin and causing both of them to catch their breath sharply.

"I only meant," he corrected himself, his heart stuttering in his chest, "that I have room for both of you, if you'd like to stay. That sofa's not half bad, and there's a spare room, upstairs. It's late, and it might be better for all of us to get some rest before we drive back across town."

* * *

Ruth's face was flushed and hot, but she resolutely kept her gaze trained on Harry's face, trying to discern his meaning. What could possibly have possessed him, that he would suggest such a thing? Was he only being polite? Was he wishing, perhaps, hoping that something else might happen between them, should she choose to stay the night?

 _Not bloody likely,_ Ruth thought. Even if Harry did have ulterior motives in offering her his spare bedroom, Ruth was not about to indulge in those sorts of thoughts about him, not now, not when she'd been back in the country for all of one day. _Not when Will's in the house._

"I wouldn't want to put you out," she said tentatively, trying to get a handle on the situation, trying to understand what the bloody hell Harry was thinking.

"I've stayed here loads of times," Will said as he dragged himself up from the table. He crossed the kitchen, rubbing at his bleary eyes, and clapped Harry on the shoulder. "Thanks, mate," he said. And then he leaned in, and kissed Ruth on the cheek. "Get some rest, mum. That bed upstairs is nice, it was practically my second home while you were away."

"Will-" she had intended to stop him, but then she looked at him, _really_ looked at him, and bit her tongue. She could plainly see how tired he was, but there was something else, some sorrow in his normally sparkling blue eyes, that stopped her in her tracks. _He's been through so much,_ she thought sadly. _Let him rest._ "I'll be in to check on you in a minute," she said instead.

Will sighed. "Mum, I'm twenty-three. I don't need you to read me a bedtime story."

"Just the same," she said, patting him fondly on the cheek before he left them.

Once they were alone, she turned her attention once more to the man beside her, the man currently looking at her like she was the most precious thing in the world. "You're sure it's no problem?" she asked him softly, chiding herself for the way her heart skipped a beat when she saw him looking at her like that.

It was plain from the expression on his face that Harry was quite happy to have them staying with him for the night; though he was not smiling, his warm hazel eyes were shining at her in the dim light of the kitchen. She loved seeing him like this, sans tie and jacket, his shirtsleeves rolled up and his gaze friendly and open and focused totally on her.

"You're welcome here, any time," he told her, echoing the same words she'd spoken to him only that morning.

* * *

"All right, love?" his mother asked him, smoothing the borrowed duvet over his shoulders before running her fingers through his tousled hair.

Will hummed. He was already halfway asleep, stretched out on Harry's sofa with one of the cats curled up on top of him. It was nice, having her here, feeling the reassuring touch of her hand, knowing she was well. And it was nice, too, to know that Harry was so close by, that they were all together, the way he had wanted them to be for so long.

Something was niggling at the back of his mind, though, something he'd been meaning to tell her. Something important. What was it?

And then he remembered. His mum had taken a step back from him, clearly ready to leave him on his own, so he reached out and caught her by the hand, drawing her back to him.

"Mum," he said, his tongue heavy in his mouth. _Christ,_ but he was tired.

"What is it, love?" she asked him. He hated hearing the note of fear in her voice, and he hoped that what he was about to tell her would make her feel better, in some way. Would bring her some peace. _She deserves it._

"Have to tell you," he muttered. "Harry told me. My father…he's dead."

* * *

Ruth couldn't breathe. She felt light-headed and dizzy. The room swam around her, and she reached out, clutching the arm of the sofa for support. Will released his grip on her arm, the sound of his steady breathing filling the room even as Ruth struggled to force her own lungs to work.

 _Oh, no, Harry, no, what have you done?_ she thought desperately, tears filling her eyes unbidden.

She stumbled away from the sitting room, leaving her son sleeping peacefully on the sofa. Panic stole her thoughts away, left her trembling and uncertain, but her feet carried her back to the kitchen, where Harry was waiting for her with a bottle of wine in his hand and a cautious little smile on his face. That smile vanished the moment he caught sight of her.

"Ruth?" he asked, setting the bottle down and crossing the room to stand before her. Close enough for her to touch, though she did not want that closeness now.

She opened her mouth, tried and failed to speak, closed it again. She took a deep ragged breath. In that moment, Harry was looking at her with such tender concern, his hand rising and falling at his side as he made to reach for her and then thought better of it.

"Ruth? What is it?" he urged her.

Finally, through her fear and her despair, Ruth found her voice, and asked him the one question she hoped she'd never have to voice aloud.

"Did you murder Davie King?"


	46. Chapter 46

" _Did you murder Davie King?"_

Harry's heart froze in his chest at those words. Before she'd come stumbling back into the kitchen with that look of horror on her face, he'd taken two tall glasses down from the cabinet, and pulled a bottle of white wine from the refrigerator. In his mind he'd fished about until he settled on what he thought was a rather nice opening line; when she came back in, he'd decided, he would smile at her, and offer the wine, and say, _I know it isn't white Burgundy, but I thought it might be nice to share, all the same._ He had planned this, had prepared himself for sitting at his kitchen table with her, drinking wine, and slowly but surely putting themselves back together.

And then the axe had fallen, and all his dreams had perished in the onslaught.

 _How does she know?_ He thought helplessly, frozen in that moment with her as she stared at him accusingly through tear-bright eyes and he gazed back at her in a petrified silence. _Couldn't we have had one night, just one bloody night, without having to dredge up the sins of the past?_

"How did you know?" he croaked. Before she'd spoken those terrible words he had taken several steps towards her, and she was close enough now that he could reach out and draw her into his arms if he wished, if she'd let him. He knew she wouldn't though; he could practically feel the anger rolling off of her in waves, but he found he could not move an inch. He remained paralyzed, waiting for the damnation she was about to unload on him.

"Will told me, just now," she answered in a voice as harsh and unsteady as his own had been. She scrubbed at her cheeks, the way Will did when he was embarrassed that Harry had caught him weeping. "My son just said to me, like it was the most ordinary thing in the world, that _you_ told _him_ his father's dead. And I want to know how, and why, and what part you had to play in it." Ruth stopped short of stomping her foot, but only just. Harry could not recall a time when he'd ever seen her quite this angry, when he'd ever seen her eyes flashing at him like that. Even in her fear and her rage she was lovely, and it tore at his heart, to know that such loveliness would be forever denied him, because of the things he'd done.

"Maybe we should sit down," he suggested, running a weary hand over his face. _I'm too old for this,_ he thought. _I'm sick of all of this death and doom and gloom._

"I don't want to sit down, Harry, I want to know-"

"How did you know his name?" Harry asked her, cutting her diatribe short. That confused him more than most anything else about this whole awful situation; Will had told him that he didn't know his father's name, and Harry couldn't understand why it was that Ruth seemed utterly unfazed by the revelation of her attacker's identity.

Ruth sighed, and he watched with sorrow heavy in his heart as her shoulders slumped and her gaze dropped away from his face. At least when she was looking at him he felt he had some idea of what she was thinking; when she hid herself away from him like this, he felt as if he'd lost his only connection to her, as if he were floating adrift on a stormy sea with neither anchor nor rudder to keep him on course.

"A few years ago, after Angela…" her voice trailed off as she took a ragged breath. There was no need for her to finish that particular thought; Harry remembered that awful night as well as did she. "I was so… _angry_ with you, Harry. For reading my psychological report. It was unfair of you, to do that to me, to use it against me like that. So I thought…turnabout's fair play, and all that, and I had a look at yours."

"You've read my psychological report?" Harry wasn't sure whether he ought to be proud of her, for showing that level of ingenuity, or whether he ought to be bloody furious at the way she'd flaunted regulations and invaded his privacy. If he were being perfectly honest, pride was winning; _is there nothing she can't do, once she sets her mind to it?_ he wondered.

"And your personnel file," she added in a tone of voice that told him that if she weren't so bloody angry with him she would have been smiling just now.

"How did you manage it?" he asked, leaning back against his kitchen counter and staring at her in wonder, this woman who always surprised him, always amazed him, always enthralled him. "That's so far above your clearance level-"

She looked up at him sharply, the expression on her face saying clearly, _when has that ever stopped me before?_

"There's an entry in your psych report about what happened with Davie King, and there's a photo of him in the file. I'd never known his name, before that day, but I have never, ever forgotten his face." She shuddered, just a little, wrapped her arms tightly around her middle and dropped her gaze to the floor once more. Harry realized with a growing feeling of dread that this was it, this was the moment when they were going to have to talk about, not just what _he_ had done, but what Davie King had done to Ruth. For the last two years he had carried that knowledge like a stone upon his shoulders, unable to comprehend it, unwilling to face it. That something so violent, so vile in nature should have happened to Ruth, _his_ Ruth, beggared belief. Before now he had hoped that they might be able to move past it without discussing it outright, that he might be permitted to go the rest of his life without speaking the word _rape_ aloud to her. Now though, he realized that this conversation was happening, whether he wanted it to or not.

"It gave me quite a shock, when I found that photo," Ruth continued in a tired little voice. "I had a panic attack, right there in Registry. Thank God no one else ever goes down there, I don't know how I would have explained it, if anyone saw me."

"Ruth," he choked, his throat constricted with sorrow as he realized the full implication of her words. Not only had Ruth learned Davie King's name that fateful day in Registry, if she had read the full report, then surely she must also have learned-

"I know what you did, Harry. To his father. I know."

Harry lurched away from the counter and collapsed into the nearest kitchen chair, burying his face in his hands. With all his might he tried to keep himself together, to keep from letting her see the pain that pierced his heart at those words. _She knows,_ he thought bleakly. _She knows._ What Harry had done, all those years ago, in another lifetime, had set Davie King on a course bound straight for Ruth, this woman he loved so dearly.

"Harry, I have to know," she said softly, her tone faintly pleading. He could hear the desperation in her voice, could hear the sorrow, could hear the pain, and he was breaking in half beneath the weight of it. As he closed his eyes, he saw Davie King's face once more, that face that had haunted his dreams for over a year now. At the time, he had believed that what he was doing was right, and there was a small, primal part of him that whispered to him, told him that he would do it again in a heartbeat if he had the chance. Still though, he understood what he had done, how he had sacrificed his principles, _their_ principles, in the name of common revenge.

"Tell me, Harry," Ruth whispered, and he jumped in his seat as he felt her hand, warm and soft, come to rest on the back of his bowed head, her fingers running softly through his sparse hair.

"I'm so sorry, Ruth," he breathed. Her hand stilled, but she did not deny him her touch, instead letting her palm rest where it was, cradling his head ever so gently. "He came back to England, a year ago," Harry began to explain in a halting voice, raising his head so that he could look her in the eye as he spoke. She deserved that much, he thought. As the truth came pouring out of him, she kept her gaze steady on his face, heartbreak and fear and hurt swirling in the ocean-blue depths of her eyes. "He very nearly killed my entire team. Shot me, in the process," he added, noting the way she flinched when he spoke those words.

 _Don't get shot._

 _I won't._

 _Just another broken promise,_ he thought.

"Did you know, Harry? Did you know…what he'd done?" she prompted him, catching her bottom lip between her teeth. It was plain she was trying not to cry, but she still maintained the connection between their bodies, the warmth of her hand against his skin giving him the strength he needed to continue.

"Connie James…" Harry started, and then trailed off, unsure how to explain who Connie had been, what she had known, how she had died.

"I've heard of her," Ruth told him, in a tone of voice that spoke plainly of her dislike of the woman. "She was in Northern Ireland with you."

Harry nodded, dislodging Ruth's hand in the process. She drew back from him, twisting her fingers together in front of her the way she did when she was nervous, and Harry found himself bereft, without her gentle touch to ground him.

"She was. I brought her back onside, for a time, and she told me. Connie had kept an eye on him, you see, and she knew. She knew."

Ruth nodded, and took another step back from him, as the tears began to slide down her cheeks.

"Someone had to hold him accountable, Ruth," Harry told her, begging her to understand, to believe him, to forgive him. _I cannot lose you now, not like this._ "How many innocent people did he kill? How many lives did he ruin? How many little girls…"

* * *

Ruth struggled to draw in a breath as Harry spoke. Though they had only been talking for a few moments she felt as if this conversation had already lasted an eternity. Her emotions were bouncing from sorrow to anger and back again so quickly that she felt she could barely keep up. At first, she could not believe that Harry would have done such a thing, would have acted so…roughly, would have named himself Davie King's judge, jury, and executioner. It wasn't _right;_ for more than two decades Ruth had lived with this pain, and though she dearly wanted the man who had attacked her to face justice, she had not meant to send Harry out into the world as a one-man firing squad.

There was a small, primitive part of her that rejoiced, though, to know that there was one less monster roaming the world. What Davie King had done to her on that night had determined the course of her whole life, had influenced her every relationship from the time she was fourteen years old. She knew what it had cost her, knew how difficult it had been, raising her son on her own and floundering behind while her peers were leaning how to love one another. There was no romance in her life, and precious little love; fear and doubt had walled her away from the world, and she had felt safe, hidden within the fortress of her own heart. If it had never happened, perhaps she would have been braver, perhaps she would have pushed her own boundaries, perhaps she would have settled down, lived a normal life. She was twenty-eight years old, before she found the courage to go to bed with a man for the first time, and she had felt so much doubt, at the time, convinced she was too old, that while she had been busy raising her son she had missed the window, the time frame in which people were supposed to learn about sex, and what they liked and what they didn't. It seemed foolish now, looking back on it, but still those doubts had lingered.

And when she found a man, a man she wanted, a man she thought she could have loved, her fear had stayed her hand. Yes, she had been afraid of telling Harry the truth about Will, afraid of the professional ramifications, afraid that he wouldn't want to entangle himself with a woman who had a child, but more than that, she had been afraid that she would be a disappointment to him. Burdened with a secret grief and deeply inexperienced, she had truly believed that Harry would have found her naïve, when it came to the physical side of their relationship, that he would not want to waste his time trying to coax her into feeling comfortable around him.

She knew better, now. She knew now that Harry was willing to wait for her, no matter how long. She knew how patient he was, how kind, how thoughtful. And she had seen, too, how much he cared for her son, how untroubled he was by that part of her life.

Was it so wrong, she wondered, that Harry had stood up for her, that he had held Davie King accountable for the scars he'd left on her, for the people he'd killed, for all the chaos he'd wrought in the course of his life? Could she really expect anything less from the man sitting before her with his head in his hands, this man who had treated her so gently, this man who had tried to go to prison in her place, this man who had opened his home and his heart to her?

 _There are no easy answers,_ she realized as she watched him through his tears. _We're a bit broken, the two of us, aren't we?_

"I am so sorry, Ruth," Harry murmured, turning his face up towards her once more. She could see it in his eyes, could see his shame. He blamed himself, she realized, not just for murdering Davie King, but for setting him in her path. _Oh, Harry,_ she thought, feeling her own heart breaking at the sight of him. It was easy to see how he could have got it so mixed up in his mind, how he could have linked his actions in Northern Ireland with her attack, how he could have decided that he was responsible for the lot of it.

"It isn't your fault, Harry," she answered him softly. She was forcefully reminded of another day when she had spoken those words, when she had reached out and trailed her fingertips across his skin, wanting him to know that however much he might blame himself, some things were beyond his control.

"He went mad, Ruth. He went mad, because of me. If I hadn't…maybe he wouldn't have…"

Harry was struggling to form a sentence, but Ruth could fill in the gaps for him; as always, she found she could read his mind like her favorite book. Impulsively she crossed the space between them and reached out for him once more, catching his chin in her hands.

"It isn't your fault, Harry," she repeated emphatically. As she looked at him she could almost feel herself falling into the warmth of his soft, dark eyes, as she had always longed to do. Her anger had faded, as she was forced to face the truth of her own heart, forced to acknowledge that in killing Davie King, Harry had been searching for his own absolution. He felt that he had created a monster, and he felt responsibility for putting that monster down, before he hurt anyone else. Ruth thought she could understand that, in a way, and as she stared at him, all desire to fight him, to fight her feelings for him, left her completely.

* * *

How was it, he wondered, that just a few minutes before she had been so angry with him that she very nearly vibrated with it, and now she could touch him so gently, could speak to him with such warmth? Harry had long ago discovered that Ruth's mind worked in ways he would never understand. Perhaps he wasn't meant to understand, he thought as he looked at her now; perhaps it was enough to simply accept her, as she was, to accept the forgiveness she seemed to be offering him. For his part, Harry would never forgive himself, not for what he'd done to Davie King's father, for the role his actions had played in ruining Ruth's life, for gunning down Davie King like a dog before he had a chance to defend himself. No, Harry would never forgive himself for that. But Ruth could. She already had.

 _I love you,_ he thought as he stared up at her, the dearest longing of his heart made flesh. _I love you, and I don't deserve you._

"Does Will know?" she asked him, her hand still gently touching his face, forcing him to keep his attention focused on her and only her.

"He knows his name, and he knows that he's dead. That's it."

Ruth nodded, dropped her hand away from his face, and heaved a great sigh. "That's probably for the best. There's no need to tell him the rest."

Once more Harry ran his hand over his face. Though his heart was shattered, he felt that this particular conversation had gone better than he ever could have hoped, and he sensed that Ruth was ready to draw it to a close, to put it behind them. He was thankful for that, just now; he wasn't sure how much more of this he could bear.

"It's late, Harry," she murmured. "We should go to bed."

His heart stuttered in his chest at those words; though he knew her intent was perfectly innocent, he could not help the way he longed for her, could not help the bitter disappointment that filled him, knowing that they would be going to sleep in separate beds. There was nothing he wanted so much as to fall asleep tangled up with her, to wake to the sight of her face as she rested peacefully beside him.

Still, though, he nodded his agreement, and dragged himself to his feet. For a moment they faced one another, each of them weary, each of them battered and bruised, inside and out, from everything they had faced together over the last few days. As he gazed at her, he saw a tremor run through her, saw her face begin to crumple, and he realized that the time for holding one another at arm's length had come to an end. He had bared his heart to her, and she to him, and he had no interest in pretending he was unaffected by her pain.

He reached out to her, and took her in his arms. Ruth collapsed against his chest, folding herself into his embrace, and wept. For a very long time they stood thus, entwined together in his kitchen, their hearts whispering to one another in voices too soft for them to hear.


	47. Chapter 47

Ruth didn't sleep, that night. Though she was exhausted, mentally and physically drained, she tossed and turned the whole night through, buried beneath the crisp clean sheets of Harry's guest bed, her mind awhirl with memories, with fractured hopes and fragile dreams. In a way she had come to accept what Harry had done, in killing Davie King; she felt a fierce sort of pride, knowing that Harry had stood up to his demons, as well as her own, that he had taken on that burden in the name of justice. In their world justice was rough and dark and almost always a dish served cold. She knew this, had seen it a hundred times during the years she'd spent working by his side. There came a point when the law stopped, and those people who operated outside its boundaries had to take matters into their own hands. She knew this, and she forgave him this act of brutal violence.

Still, though, hearing the name of Davie King spoken aloud, discussing the horrible things he had done with the man she loved, it left her trapped in a hell she thought she had long since left behind. She could still remember every detail of his face, the way he smelled, the way he struck her, the way he laughed, after. It was hard enough, carrying those particulars of her trauma locked away inside her own heart, the way she had done for more than two decades now, but sharing them with Harry, knowing that he was well aware of everything she'd been through, it hurt her in a way she was not expecting.

Years ago, when she was nursing her quiet affection for Harry and keeping her distance as best she could, she had shuddered to think how he might react, should he ever learn the truth. In her somewhat limited experience, once men found out, they tended to treat her differently, as if she were fragile, made of glass, prone to shattering at any moment. They kept their thoughts, their needs, their wants to themselves, and slowly pulled away from her, thinking she was broken in a way, as if she were somehow now unfit to share their beds. And she couldn't bear it, should Harry begin to offer her trite platitudes and deny her the touch of his hands, his heated gaze.

Now, though, the cat was out of the bag, so to speak. It was too late to try to spare Harry the horror of it, and all that remained to be seen was how he would choose to proceed with her. She thought perhaps that all her previous doubts might have been unfounded, given the way he had held her in his arms while she wept, the way he had wrapped himself around her, clung to her as if he were a drowning man and she his salvation. The way he had looked at her when they parted, as if he wanted to consume her whole, the words _come to bed with me_ echoing in the darkness of his eyes, though they never passed his lips. She saw it in him, the need he felt for her, and was shocked and somewhat awed by her own response. He had learned long ago how to read her with just a look, and she knew that when he gazed into her eyes he saw her answering _yes, always, yes._ And yet they remained frozen in a state of delicate détente, and went to sleep in separate rooms.

For the second time in as many days, Ruth was faced with the prospect of sharing her morning with Harry. For the first time, perhaps ever, Harry had taken his orders seriously, and would not be going in to work. Seeing as Ruth was still technically dead, she had no particular agenda for the day, either. A tantalizing sort of promise hung in the air, despite the muzzy head Ruth's sleepless night had earned her. They had nowhere to be, no one to see, no politicians to appease, no catastrophes to avert. They had only an abundance of time, and, in Ruth's case at least, an abundance of nerves.

 _There's only one thing for it,_ she told herself sternly. _Up you get._

* * *

Will woke early; the sunlight streaming in behind Harry's soft white curtains fell in stripes across his face, and alerted him to the coming of the day well before the rest of the house began to stir. He rose, shook off the cats, and stumbled into the kitchen to feed the motley menagerie and make himself some tea. Of course, the moment he was up and moving Scarlet began scratching at the back door, so he sighed, pulled on his coat, and took his tea out to the garden with the little dog trotting merrily by his side.

As he leaned against the house, sipping his tea and watching her romping ecstatically through the grass, he thought about the last time he had taken his tea in a garden. They'd been sitting at a little table, he and George, speaking quietly of his mother. It was strange, and deeply unsettling, to think that George had died so soon after, to think that Will still had not heard his mother speak a word about him, this man who had been a part of her life, however briefly.

Had she loved him? Will had to wonder. That day in the garden George had told him that they weren't properly married, that she wouldn't agree to a ceremony, which Will supposed he could understand. George had also known her as Rachel, not as Ruth; perhaps it was the thought of signing a false name to the marriage certificate that had unsettled her, and not George himself. Somehow Will didn't think so; he'd watched the way she spoke to Harry, the way she blushed when he looked at her, the way she fairly vibrated with a nervous sort of excitement around him, despite the less than stellar circumstances of their reunion. He had never, ever seen her this way before; she seemed younger somehow, lighter, in those brief moments when he caught a glimpse of her and Harry standing alone and forgetting, for however short a time, everything they'd been through.

She _was_ young, he knew. Will had been teased a bit at school, for having such a young mum, had gotten into more than one fight with some foul-mouthed bully who thought it would be fun to have a go at her. He'd never told her the truth about that; when he came from school with a note for her detailing his misadventures, he had lied about the nature of the offense given and taken his punishment without another word about it.

Will was significantly older now than she had been when he was born, and he shuddered to think how he would have handled it, if he had an eight-year-old child at home to worry about. Little Wes sprang to mind; as much as Will enjoyed spending time with the boy, watching the dogs at the track or tackling one another in the snow at Christmas, he knew he wouldn't be able to cope with being responsible for him all the time, all hours of the day, the way his mum had done. It was a lot of responsibility to heap on a person so young, but she had always tried her best for him.

Surely she deserved a bit of happiness, he thought, smiling fondly as he watched Scarlet rushing off to investigate a shrub at the edge of the garden; after everything that had happened, surely she deserved the chance to find someone nice, someone who cared for her, someone she cared for, someone who would support her, the way she always supported everyone else. And it seemed to him that she had chosen her person already. It would take time, he knew, to find the answers to all the questions that still plagued them, to give her back her life and her freedom, but Will could only hope that when the dust settled she would be smiling. He had very much missed her smile.

"Good morning, Will," Harry's voice rumbled from the doorway.

Will turned to face him, smiling as he did, thoughts of George and the pain his mum had endured in her life fading as he took in the sight of Harry, leaning against the doorframe and holding his own mug of tea in his hands.

"All right?" Will asked him, somewhat nervously. He'd been so tired the night before, all but passing out the moment he sat down on Harry's sofa, though he could dimly recall speaking to his mum before he'd slipped completely into oblivion. He had no idea if Harry and Ruth had stayed up together, if they'd had a chance to talk, properly, the way he was sure they needed to, but he hoped the gentle smile on Harry's face was the affirmation he was looking for.

"Do you know, I think I am," Harry answered mysteriously. "Your mother's in the shower. Why don't we get breakfast going? We can have it ready by the time she's finished."

Will nodded and called out to Scarlet, who came trotting obediently, nuzzling Harry's leg for a moment before continuing on into the kitchen.

"Bacon?" Will asked.

"Bacon," Harry agreed.

* * *

Ruth was a vision, sweeping into the kitchen with her damp hair all atangle and her eyes brighter than they had been since the moment she'd re-entered his life. While her beauty did not perhaps qualify her for supermodel status she was, to Harry's mind, the single loveliest woman he had ever known. Perhaps this was because he _knew_ her, because he knew the gentle compassion of her tender heart, knew the quiet strength of her firm convictions, because he recognized the way her every emotion shone in the opalescent brilliance of her eyes, in the crinkles at the corners of her soft, full lips. Even now, without makeup, without artifice, still dressed in the slightly wrinkled clothes she'd worn the day before, she was stunning in her proximity, radiant as she bent to press a kiss against her son's cheek, ruffling his hair and smiling that mysterious little smile he loved so well. It was good to see her smiling, to see her in such a pleasant mood, despite the cloud of horror that had trailed behind her these last few days. He only hoped that her sunny optimism would last, that he would continue to be blessed by the splendor of her happiness.

"Good morning, Harry," she murmured as she came to stand beside him, her voice warm and just a little uncertain as she turned the full force of her dazzling smile on him. He almost couldn't breathe beneath the weight of his relief, the sheer joy that filled him upon seeing that she was here, in his home, alive and well and whole, as he had prayed for so long that she might be. She was a temptation, a dangerous gamble; he wanted nothing so much as to kiss her, and damn the bacon.

"Good morning," he replied instead, his voice sounding just a tad hoarse to his own ears. If Ruth discerned the cause of that roughness she said nothing; she simply reached out, squeezed his forearm once in a reassuring sort of way, and then set about making herself a cup of tea, humming all the while.

And so they ate breakfast together once again, Will and Harry and Ruth. Will confessed that he had missed several calls from his employer at the bookshop but had yet to return them, not knowing how to explain his truancy. Harry harrumphed and assured the lad he would sort it out; it wouldn't do to have Will losing his job over this catastrophe.

"What are your plans for the day, Harry?" Ruth asked him, once that particular conversation had run its course.

 _Christ,_ but this was wonderful, this banal, every day sort of chat as they lingered over the remains of their breakfast and the dregs of their tea. It was intoxicating, this siren song of a normal life. The life that might be, if only they were brave enough to reach out and claim it for themselves. Will kept casting smug, surreptitious glances at the pair of them, as if he were privately assessing the odds of their eventually find their way to one another, and finding those odds very much in his favor. Harry had to wonder at that; how was it that this young man could possibly approve of Harry as a potential partner for his mum, knowing the sort of man he was?

 _Count yourself lucky he isn't trying to kill you in your sleep,_ he told himself.

"I've got a meeting with the Home Secretary later this morning, but otherwise I'm free as a bird," he told her, leaning back in his chair and sighing a contented sort of sigh.

"I thought you were taking a few days off?" she raised a single, perfect eyebrow at him, her expression telling him all too plainly that she had her suspicions about the nature of his meeting, and was looking for confirmation. He knew that look very well; how many times had they stood together on the Grid, he trying to maintain a certain professional distance, she worming her way ever nearer to her goal, relentless until she achieved the unachievable and flashed that triumphant grin at him? It pained him to think of ever returning to Thames House without her by his side, but he pushed those worries aside in favor of enjoying the simple luxury of fencing with her over breakfast.

"I am," he said, giving up all pretense of obfuscation. "I thought it best to start lobbying for your reinstatement immediately, while events are still fresh in everyone's mind."

She nodded, looked down at her tea, magnanimous in victory. "Do you really think it'll be that easy?" she asked him.

Once again, the specter of Davie King reared its ugly head between them. He had not confessed the entirety of that sorry episode to Ruth, not wanting her to worry needlessly, but he knew that the role the HS had played in setting that monster loose with the intent of ending Harry's life had left Nicholas Blake very much in his debt. This would be a small price to pay, as far as Blake was concerned, to bring the ledger back to balance between them.

"I believe I've mentioned, I'm owed a favor," he said grimly.

Delicate as ever, Ruth did not press him for more.

"What about you? Any plans for the day?" he asked her, wanting to restore the dream of domestic tranquility they had only just begun to explore.

"Seeing as I'm still dead, I find my social calendar is completely blank at the moment," she replied in a tetchy tone of voice. Harry winced; he hadn't meant to upset her. Her comment did raise a question though; there were people who would need to be informed that she was miraculously returned from the dead. Her mother, at the very least, though come to think of it, perhaps Ruth would prefer to leave her in blissful ignorance. She had been part of a choir, back before Cotterdam; he wondered if she would try to rejoin them, or if she would go in search of another group, and hope to keep a low profile. Surely she had friends though, people she had known at Oxford, in Cheltenham, who would be pleased to learn that she'd returned.

 _Oh Christ,_ he thought glumly as he realized that he had yet to tell her about what had befallen Zaf and Adam. Surely she had noted their absence from the team; had someone else told her, before she'd been dragged out of her safe house and plopped down before him in the warehouse? Part of him hoped that this particular task had fallen to Jo, or even Ros, thus sparing him that unpleasantness, but a larger, nobler part of him felt that it was his duty to inform her of the tragedy that had struck in her absence.

"It's fine, Harry," she sighed, clearly reading his distress in his face. "Honestly, I just want to spend some time at home. Get reacquainted with my cats."

"Hey, what about me?" Will demanded in mock outrage, his words slightly muffled around a mouthful of eggs.

"And you, you knob," she said fondly.

 _That's more like it,_ he thought. Playful teasing and those gentle smiles were imminently preferable to a lengthy discussion on how Ruth was languishing in purgatory, caught between the living and the dead.

"I'll drop you at home, on my way to see the HS," Harry offered.

"That would be lovely, Harry, thank you," she answered, and that was that.


	48. Chapter 48

As soon as Harry dropped them off, Ruth settled down in the sitting room. It was strange, finding herself with so much free time on her hands. Always before her life had been full of noise, as she busily rushed from one task to the next, juggling work and Will and everything in between. After Cotterdam, she'd been months on the move, running from one nameless village to the next, never staying very long, always looking over her shoulder, never taking a moment to rest. And even in Cyprus her days had been full; there was always somewhere to go, someone to see, a meal to cook, a man to please. Now, though, an endless parade of hours stretched in front of her, and she had no notion of how to fill them.

She was so bloody tired; though her sleeplessness had brought with a certain clarity, as regarded her situation with Harry, and a certain sense of peace, as regarded her future, it had left her completely exhausted and loath to move. She had half a mind to curl up right there on the sofa with a good book and her beloved moggies and take a nice long nap, but she couldn't quite bring herself to stand and go in search of a book.

As ever, Will seemed to possess a certain telepathy that enabled him to predict her wants; he came waltzing into the sitting room with a cup of tea and a book in his hands, and delivered both of them to her with a cheeky flourish.

"Thanks, love," she said, smiling at him fondly as she watched him collapse into the armchair, his long legs draping inelegantly over the side. Her smile promptly vanished, replaced with a wistful sort of longing as she took note of the book he'd given her. _Amores._

 _And isn't that odd?_ She thought, looking up from the book in her hands to study her son's face carefully. What did he know, about her connection to this particular book? What was he trying to tell her?

Will had his eyes closed, his head resting back against the chair, but for all his careful artifice she saw straight through him. He knew, she realized; he knew who had given her this book, and why, and he knew what it meant to her, though she could not fathom what he was playing at, giving it to her now. She returned her attention to the book, running her fingers reverently over the front cover, remembering.

"Can I ask you something?" Will spoke up from his chair in the corner, his voice unnaturally lighthearted.

Ruth sighed. It stood to reason, she supposed, that her son would have inherited some of her own personal characteristics, and she had no one to blame but herself if he was inquisitive by nature. He had always been full to bursting with questions, even when he was child, trying to understand the world and his place in it. Of course he would have questions now, after everything that had happened. In his place, Ruth supposed she would have felt much the same, desperate for information, for a way to make sense of the insensible.

"Of course, love," she answered. She had always called him _love,_ from the day he was born; her own father had called her that, had reminded her at every opportunity that she was loved, that she was wanted, that she was cherished beyond measure, and she had always wanted, very much, for her son to feel the same. Words were important, and she had always chosen hers carefully.

"Are you all right? About…about George, I mean." As he spoke he straightened up in his chair, planting his feet on the ground and his elbows on his knees, staring straight at her with concern etched all over his dear sweet face. _He's a good boy,_ she thought. Ruth knew he meant well, that he was not asking in search of sordid details, but rather seeking some reassurance that his mum was well and happy to be back home with him. And she was, she truly was.

How uncomfortable must this be for him, she wondered, having to try to navigate the murky waters of his mother's personal life for perhaps the first time ever, having to seriously consider what she must have done, what she must have felt for this man he had met, however briefly? Ruth knew a little something about that; she could recall all too well the betrayal she had felt, upon learning that her mum was seeing David, and how much worse that feeling of impending disaster had grown when they announced their intent to marry. She hoped that Will, being older than she had been at that time and hopefully a bit more understanding, did not share those feelings of pain and loss upon learning that his mother was, in fact, a human being in need of comfort.

"I…" she started to speak, and promptly lost her voice. _Am I all right?_ She wondered. _Am I, truly?_ It was hard to say. The guilt was still with her, and likely always would be, that crippling, overwhelming sense that George's blood was on her hands. She had lied to him, had placated him, had drawn him into a world of horrors he could never understand, and he was dead, all because he had shared her bed. Ruth knew this, felt this truth echoing in the lonely caverns of her heart. Beneath that guilt, though, reason prevailed, and a little voice whispered to her at every turn _you did not know, could not have known that it would end like this. He was a pawn in a game he did not understand._

Will was looking at her strangely; it felt very much as if he had become the parent, and she the unpredictable child. _When did he grow up?_ She wondered, her heart softly singing the lament of every mother who wakes one day to find that her baby boy was now a man.

"I will be," she answered him finally. "George was a good man, but he wasn't…" _he wasn't Harry,_ a little voice whispered in the back of her mind, but she did not give voice to this thought. "It wasn't meant to be," she finished instead, somewhat lamely. There was so much more she wanted to say, about the guilt she felt, the guilt she feared would never truly leave her, the doubts she harbored about her future, the gossamer thread of hope that bound her heart to Harry's, despite the troubles they had faced. But Will was her son, and she could not shake the intrinsic need she felt to protect him, to shield him from the darkness of the world she inhabited.

"Mum," he sighed, his voice a gentle protest against her feeble attempts at obfuscation.

"I saw it happen," she confessed, shocked by her own audacity in saying such a thing aloud. "They had a video playing, made us watch…" she studied her toes intently, unwilling to look her son in the eye as she spoke. "I was so worried for you, love. There's a part of me that feels relieved that it was George and not you. What sort of monster does that make me?"

Will was by her side in an instant, sitting down beside her and wrapping an arm around her shoulders. "You're not a monster," he told her firmly. "You're my mum."

* * *

Harry's meeting with Nicholas Blake went even better than he had anticipated; Blake had jumped at the opportunity to settle the score between them, and even volunteered to ring Will's employer at the bookshop personally, to explain the situation and ensure the lad would still have a job. There had been very little evidence against Ruth to begin with, all of it fabricated (some of it by Harry's own team), and the furor surrounding that particular event had died down enough to make bringing her back onside a likely possibility. The HS assured Harry that Ruth would have her papers back within the week, and with this news in mind he made his way to her little house immediately upon departing from Whitehall.

He supposed he ought to call ahead, to let her know he was coming, rather than just swooping in on her unannounced. Ruth had never much enjoyed surprises, he knew; she was the sort of woman who needed time to plan, to prepare herself for everything, and he didn't want to intrude on her when she was resting. Still, though, showing up at her door had worked quite well for him the other night, and he hoped that she would once again be open to spending a little time with him. His thoughts were consumed by her, every moment she was away from his side. What was she thinking, how was she feeling, was she wondering about him, too? These questions swirled through his mind, with no answers forthcoming.

It was too soon, he knew, for him to be entertaining any sort of notion of a romantic entanglement with her. Surely she would need a little time, to wrap her mind around everything that had happened, to decide for herself what she wanted. George had only just died, and until a few days ago he had shared her bed and her life. Ruth was not the sort of person who leapt from one relationship to another, and he knew this about her, and he respected it. It was a delicate situation, and he knew that no matter how his heart longed for her, no matter how he ached to hold her, anything that might happen between them would have to be decided on her terms. She was as skittish as a deer, and as gentle, and he would have to approach her with the reverence and the tenderness that she deserved.

Connie had told him once that he had put Ruth on a pedestal, had warned him that his dearest love was only human, and that he would do well to remember that. In a way he supposed she had been right; Ruth had come to represent everything that was good, everything that was kind, everything that was hopeful in this world, and sometimes when he thought of her he found that in his heart he worshipped her as a goddess, rather than admiring her as a flesh and blood woman, with all the foibles and all the faults that went along with it. There was a part of him that was convinced that such a creature would never deign to waste her beautiful heart on him, but he answered those nagging doubts with the memory of the way she'd kissed him, soft and sweet and urgent as they made their farewells on the docks, the memory of the way she'd fit within the circle of his arms, clinging to him fiercely as the embraced in the stillness of his kitchen just the night before. Yes, she was just a woman after all, a woman he loved above all others, and he would gladly carve the beating heart from his chest and serve it to her on a silver platter if she asked it of him.

She would never ask such a thing, his Ruth. She so rarely asked for what she wanted, so rarely stood up and demanded the bounty she deserved, and so he fretted. What he wanted, more than anything, was to run the tips of his fingers along the curve of her spine, to feel her warmth and heart surround him, to burn himself to ashes in the fire of her radiance. And though he cautioned himself to patience, told himself that he would wait for her to tell him what she desired of him, he feared that those words would never pass her lips, so selfless and so hesitant was she. And what was a man supposed to do in such a situation, how was he supposed to comport himself when faced with his dearest longing and his biggest regret wrapped up together in the form of a single, glorious woman?

By the time he reached her little house he had discovered no answers to those questions, though he found that his doubts had multiplied themselves exponentially in the absence of any assurance. He squared his shoulders, mounted the front steps, and rang the bell, still pondering the enigma that was Ruth, and the myriad uncertainties that colored their future together.

Will answered the door, looking disheveled but pleased to see him.

"Come in, come in," he said, opening the door further and ushering Harry once more into the little house.

"Keep your voice down," he added as he eased the door closed behind them. "Mum's sleeping."

Harry fought back a wave of bitter disappointment at those words; whatever Ruth might wish to say to him, apparently it would have to keep a while longer. He didn't begrudge her the sleep, though; as lovely as she had been, floating through his kitchen just a few hours earlier, the dark circles beneath her eyes had spoken eloquently of her exhaustion, and he knew she deserved the chance to rest.

"Come and have a cuppa," Will suggested, and Harry nodded his assent and padded silently down the hallway in the young man's wake.

They'd spent rather a lot of time drinking tea together, he and Will, but there was a certain sense of comfort in the domesticity of the routine. The tea gave them something to keep their hands occupied, when they found themselves alone together, a safe place for their eyes to land when all the questions that echoed back and forth between them made eye contact intolerable. And the fact that they _had_ a routine, a certain set of proscribed behaviors that left them both at ease, made Harry glad of it. Somehow, against all odds, they had become friends, after a fashion, had found a way to communicate with one another, to share their lives and their homes and their tea, and he treasured these little moments of normalcy. Through this quaint ritual they had come to understand certain things about one another, come to find their way around one another's homes, come to understand each other's preferences. It was…well, _nice_ seemed to be the only word Harry could think of to describe it.

"She finally talked to me a bit about George," Will confessed as he set a steaming mug of tea in front of Harry and took his usual seat across the table from him.

"That's good," Harry responded carefully. He very much wanted to know what she had said, how she was feeling, if she had given any indication that she was comfortable with the notion of throwing aside the ghost of her almost-husband in favor of taking Harry into her bed, but somehow he thought that such questions would not be well-received by her son.

"I think she's going to be all right," Will continued. "I worried, at first. She takes everything so personally, I thought she might beat herself up about it forever. But I think maybe she's starting to see that every bad thing that happens isn't necessarily her fault."

He gave Harry a calculating sort of look, a look that seemed to say _and I think you had something to do with that._ Harry dearly wished he could take credit for her acceptance of their circumstances, but he wasn't sure that it had anything to do with him at all. Ruth's mind remained, as ever, a mysterious labyrinth he knew he would never find his way through.

"That's good," he repeated. And then, feeling that he owed Will a bit more than that, he continued, "I've spoken with the Home Secretary, and she should have her papers back within the week. And he's going to ring your boss, and sort that out as well."

Will whistled. "I'd love to be a fly on the wall for that conversation," he said, chuckling. "Dave's going to piss himself."

Harry grunted; yes he imagined that Dave, the grumbly, disheveled bookshop proprietor, would be shocked indeed to receive a phone call from the Home Secretary himself, begging forgiveness for young Will's absence of late.

"That's good, though, that you've got it all sorted," Will continued, taking a sip of his tea and eyeing Harry speculatively.

"The rest is up to her," he said, trying very hard not to let loose a despondent sigh. "She hasn't said, whether she'd like to come back to work."

Will did not immediately respond; though they had discussed the particulars of Ruth's employment with MI-5 a time or two, Harry still didn't really know how the lad felt about his mother working under such dangerous conditions. Would he be pleased for her, if she once more took up her post, standing beside Harry on the wall? Or would he be cross, to find her once more in the line of fire? Harry didn't know, but he could barely sort through his own feelings on the matter. Part of him thought he might well go mad, having to return to work knowing she was back in London, but still far from his side. Another part of him was appalled, though, at the very notion of his once more thrusting her into danger. He wanted, very much, to keep her safe and well, for all the rest of his days.

"Is it terrible of me, to say that I don't want her to go back?" Will's voice was soft and quietly introspective, as he asked Harry the exact same question he had been chewing over himself.

"No, of course it isn't," Harry assured him. "She's only just come home, it's perfectly natural that you want to see her safe, and not rushing right back into trouble."

Will smiled at him sadly. "I just want her to be happy," he said. "I know she loved her job but I just thought that…maybe now, after everything that's happened, she might want to do something more… _normal_." The way he said the word _normal_ spoke volumes to Harry; Ruth had never been normal, not in any sense of the word, and it was clear that her son understood this about her, however much he might wish for things to be different.

"We'll just have to wait and see, lad," Harry told him.

* * *

Much later that night, after Harry had drug himself home and settled down in his armchair, sitting in the silence and not trying to think of how much he missed the bloody infernal moggies and Ruth's gentle smile, he found himself shaken from his reverie by the ringing of his mobile.

For once he actually did check to see who was calling him before he answered, and he was both surprised and somewhat worried to find that it was Will.

"Will?" he asked. "Everything all right?"

There was a brief pause during which a thousand possible horrible explanations for Will's sudden desire to reach out to him rushed through his mind, and then he got his answer.

"Actually, it's me. Ruth," she added, as if she needed to, as if he had forgotten in the space of just a few hours the way the rich, warm sound of her voice flooded his senses and buoyed his spirit.

"Ruth," he repeated, half in wonder and half in greeting. He didn't bother asking why she was ringing him from Will's mobile, nor did she bother with an explanation; she'd returned to the country without a mobile, and seeing as she had neither bank account nor credit card to her name, she'd yet to purchase a new one. Harry made a mental note to go out and buy her a pay-as-you-go phone the next morning; apparently Malcolm had given her one, when she'd first arrived, but it had been taken by Hillier's goons, never to be seen again.

"I'm sorry I was asleep, when you were here earlier," she continued in that same slightly hopeful, slightly hesitating voice.

Harry was suddenly, painfully reminded of another similar conversation they'd shared over the phone, the night Gary Hicks came to call; he'd been so confused, as to why she was calling, and so enamored by the very idea, and so very surprised by his own sudden desire to find himself alone with her in her little house, that had he quite lost track of his own tongue during that conversation, and very nearly put his foot right in it when she told him she wanted him to come round. It wouldn't do to have a repeat performance just now, no matter how much he might wish for the opportunity to trek back across London and find himself once more in her presence, and so he tried his best to sound cheerful and not at all expectant.

"That's quite all right," he assured her. "I know you must be exhausted."

She hummed, and for a moment silence stretched between, warm and familiar and for once, utterly comfortable. Somehow this was easier, sitting quietly on the phone with her, when he could not feel the weight of her gaze on him, could not see the wheels turning in her mind.

"Will told me your meeting with the Home Secretary went well," Ruth offered after a time, and Harry got the sense that she wasn't so much digging for information as she was simply trying to keep the conversation moving, looking for an excuse to keep him on the line.

"It did," Harry agreed. "You should have your papers by the end of the week."

"Thank you, Harry," she told him sincerely, and Harry suddenly cursed the damned phones, and the distance between them; they shouldn't be languishing in their separate houses, she should be here, with him, always, and he hated every moment he spent away from her side.

"It was the very least I could do," he replied, thinking of all she'd lost, all she'd suffered, and how his efforts paled in comparison to that pain.

"Well, thank you, just the same," she answered, and even though he could not see her, he was certain she was smiling. "How are you getting on?"

You know, I have to admit, I'm actually a bit…bored. I don't know what I'm supposed to do with myself."

For a moment there was only quiet between them, and Harry wondered if he had crossed some sort of unspoken line, with those last words. He supposed that taken in the right light his words might have been a bit…suggestive, but he didn't mean anything by it, and he was almost positive that Ruth would not have found any innuendo in them. Would she see?

""I know it's a bit late now," she said in a halting little voice, "but you'd be more than welcome to join us for dinner tomorrow, if you'd like to. If you're still bored."

Harry couldn't think of anything he would like more that to join Ruth and her son for dinner, or indeed for any meal or any activity she had in mind. He missed them both, missed Will's gentle needling and the warmth of Ruth's eyes, missed feeling as if there were something at home worth coming back to.

"Dinner would be…wonderful," he said, choosing his phrasing carefully, wondering if she understood the emphasis he placed on that final word.

"We'll see you tomorrow then," she answered, and the slightly higher pitch of her voice when she replied told him that she had in fact put it all together, that she was remembering the _something wonderful that was never said_ and everything that had passed between them. He hoped it was enough, to give her that subtle nudge, hoped that she would see that he was still here, waiting for her, whenever she was ready, that time had not dulled the intensity of his feelings for her.

"Good night, Harry," she whispered, when he did not reply.

"Good night, Ruth," he said, and just like that she hung up the phone and he found himself alone again. Only this time, he was smiling.


	49. Chapter 49

At precisely 7:00 p.m. the following evening Harry arrived at Ruth's home with a bottle of white burgundy in his hand and a dream in his heart. It was perhaps a bit foolish, perhaps a bit presumptuous, perhaps entirely obvious of him to have chosen that specific bottle of wine, but as he'd been perusing the wine selection of the little shop down the street from his house he'd stumbled across it, and he couldn't help but think that perhaps fate had put that bottle in his path, that perhaps the universe was giving him a little nudge. If that made him a sentimental old fool, then so be it, but he was bound and determined to show Ruth in every possible way that he was still, without a doubt and without reservation, very much in love with her.

As he waited for her to answer the door he second-guessed his decision once again; it would be one thing, he supposed, to make such an overture when they were planning on spending the evening alone together, but it became something else entirely knowing that Will would be there, and that whatever words he spoke to Ruth would need to be circumspect as a result. He had no intentions of wooing her in front of her son, firstly because the very idea made him deeply uncomfortable and secondly because he knew that she would find it completely inappropriate. The bottle was an attempt at wooing, if ever such an attempt had been made, and Harry knew it, and Ruth would know it, too. And so he dithered, and briefly contemplated chucking the bottle into the shrubbery before telling himself very firmly to get a grip. It was only a bottle of wine, after all, and he was only coming over for dinner. Anything else would have to wait, until Ruth was ready, until Will was safely back in Oxford and out of vocal range.

This thought led to another, not altogether unpleasant one, as he shifted uneasily on the balls of his feet and tried not to ponder what sorts of sounds Ruth might make, and at what sort of volume, should he ever find himself in her bed.

It was Will who opened the door, and Harry felt the tips of his ears turning pink as he thanked his lucky stars that the boy was not a mind reader.

"Good to see you, mate," Will said with a cheeky grin as he ushered Harry into the house once again.

"And you," Harry replied, answering Will's smile with one of his own. The boy's cheerfulness was infectious; it always had been. Something about finding himself in Will's company always lifted Harry's spirits, and he was happy to be here in this home once more, spending his time with this little family.

"I spoke to Dave. He could barely put a sentence together. I think the poor sod's afraid of me now," Will told Harry gleefully as they made their way back to the kitchen. "I'll be going back to Oxford once mum's got her papers back," he continued. Harry could understand his desire to wait; nothing was certain, in their world of swirling shadows, and he sympathized with the boy's desire to stay put and keep an eye on his mum until the whole situation was resolved.

"Dinner smells wonderful," Harry said as he stepped into the kitchen and found his senses immediately assaulted by the steak simmering merrily on the stovetop and the pan of vegetables roasting just beside it. Ruth had her back to them as she focused intently on the food, but Harry took a moment to appreciate the view afforded him; he'd never seen her in blue jeans before, and he briefly lamented the fact that he had been denied this vision for so very long. Her hair was caught in a loose ponytail, highlighting the slender curve of her neck, and he fought a sudden, wild impulse to cross the room, catch her hips in his hands, and place his lips upon the bare skin now revealed to him. For all their sakes, he restrained himself.

"Mum found out about you buying the house, and she insisted that I buy steak for all of us," Will explained in a put-upon sort of voice.

"It's only fair, love," Ruth fired back. "You haven't had to worry about money once in the last two years, the least you could do is buy Harry a nice dinner."

Will rolled his eyes at Harry but wisely kept his mouth shut.

"I've brought some wine," Harry said, mostly because he felt he ought to say _something,_ and not spend the whole night staring at the generous swell of Ruth's bottom, emphasized to its best effect by her tight jeans.

Ruth shot him a grateful little smile over her shoulder and Will, playing the part of the gracious host, relieved him of his burden and promptly poured them each a glass.

* * *

Ruth still wasn't entirely convinced that wearing jeans for dinner had been the best idea. It wasn't as if this were a date, Harry coming round to hers to share a meal with the two of them, and so she had decided that a casual ensemble was called for. Thanks to Harry, all of her belongings, including the entire contents of her wardrobe, were right where she left them. At the time, jeans had seemed like a good idea; casual, comfortable, nothing too flashy. What worried her, though, was that perhaps jeans were _too_ casual, as Harry would no doubt arrive in a jacket and tie. He had surprised her, though; when she smiled at him over her shoulder she had discovered that he was not wearing either. He wore a dark button down shirt, his top two buttons undone. When she looked at him, he was in the act of rolling up his shirtsleeves, and she blushed and turned away from him quickly, hoping he hadn't noticed the way her eyes lit up as she watched him.

It _felt_ very much like a date, even though Will was bouncing around between the pair of them, passing out the wine and chatting animatedly. And wasn't that strange, she thought, that she should so suddenly find herself nervous in Harry's company, given how much time they'd spent together over the last few days, given all they'd shared? Something felt different tonight, though it took Ruth quite a while to put her finger on it. Eventually, though, her analyst's mind came up with the answer; the last few meals they shared had been born more out of circumstance than any real decisive action on their parts. Of course they'd shared breakfast, and dinner at Harry's; they'd found themselves quite accidently together at meal time, and done the polite thing and fed one another without any fuss. This time, though, she had deliberately invited Harry round. No one had accidently fallen asleep on the sofa, no scheduled events had forced them into close proximity; she had _asked_ him to spend his time with her, and he had agreed.

 _Maybe it is a date,_ she thought, blushing that much harder.

Faffing about with the food gave her an excuse to keep her eyes and her blushes to herself, and so she simply listened to Will regaling Harry with a play-by-play account of his phone call from the laconic Dave. Harry laughed at all the right moments and seemed to be quite enjoying himself; Ruth smiled, to hear them speaking to one another fondly, and reached out to take a sip of her wine.

She nearly choked on it, recognizing the taste the moment it passed her lips.

 _White burgundy. Thermobaric bombs._

 _Quite a species, aren't we?_

"Mum? Are you all right?" Will appeared at her elbow, looking quite concerned at her sudden coughing fit.

"Fine, I'm fine," she gasped, waving him off as she took another sip of wine and tried to settle her nerves.

 _What the hell are you playing at, Harry Pearce?_ She wondered. She cast a quick glance at him, and found him staring determinedly at the table. It was easy enough for him to hide his face from her gaze, but he could not hide the tips of his ears, which had turned an adorable shade of pink, and gave him away entirely.

 _Stupid man,_ she thought fondly. He had done that on purpose, she had no doubt. It was somehow both subtle and clumsy, that he should have chosen to present her with this particular bottle of wine. In his heart, Harry really was a terrible romantic, and Ruth swelled with pride, to think that she knew this thing about him, this secret that very people, if any, shared with him.

"Supper's ready," she said, choosing not to comment on the wine. Harry knew what he had done, and now all that remained to be seen was what _Ruth_ would choose to do with this overture.

* * *

"You were there?" Ruth asked, surprised. Harry nodded, the corners of his eyes crinkling up as he looked at her, and tried not to smile. They had finished their meal, and she and Harry were lingering over the last of the white burgundy, each of them reluctant to let the evening end. Will was leaning back in his chair, smiling smugly at the pair of them, and Ruth was valiantly trying to resist the temptation to throw her napkin at him and call him a prat.

"I was," Harry admitted. "It's not every day a young man graduates from university."

Will rolled his eyes at that, but Ruth just smiled indulgently at the pair of them, her eyes going misty at the thought. She had marked the day Will was supposed to graduate from Oxford on her calendar, even though she was far away and uncertain as to whether or not he'd even made it that far, without her there to help him. Now she knew, though, knew that Harry had been there for him every step of the way, that Harry had been there on the day, to show him that he was loved, to remind him just how very proud of him his mother was. Now she knew, and she was so grateful to Harry, for everything he'd done, so grateful to find him still here with her, and not running for the hills now that he knew the horror that colored her past. _Perhaps we're not completely hopeless, after all,_ she thought.

"I took some pictures," Harry continued, fishing his mobile out of his pocket.

"Oh, Christ, you didn't!" Will protested, making a half-hearted grab for the phone. Harry beat his hand away, laughing.

"Let's see," Ruth said, sliding out of her chair and coming round to sit next to Harry, turning her attention to his mobile. He'd saved the photos there, and he handed the mobile to her without a word, watching her with an unreadable expression on his face as she scrolled through them. His proximity was making her a bit giddy; it would be the easiest thing in the world to reach out and touch him, to let her hand linger on the bare skin of his forearm as she looked up into those warm hazel eyes and thanked him as she very much wanted to do.

"Oh, look at you! You cut your hair," she said to her son, ignoring the way her heart pounded in her chest and her fingertips itched to reach out to Harry. "I don't know why you insist on keeping it that long," she continued. This was a fight they had been having on and off for the last five years, a fight she'd yet to win. Ruth was a determined woman, though; she wasn't about to give up now.

Before Will could come up with some cheeky retort his mobile rang, and he was out of his chair like a shot, racing down the hall and into the sitting room in search of some privacy.

"Thank you, Harry," Ruth said as she handed him back his phone. "I'm so glad you were there for him."

"It was a privilege," Harry answered, his eyes dark and unreadable as they scrutinized her face. Quite suddenly Ruth found herself trapped, suspended in a single moment as Harry looked at her, and she at him. The quiet sound of her own breathing seemed as loud as an explosion in the eerie stillness left in the wake of Will's departure. Her heart pounded in her chest, and dimly she realized she could smell the scent of Harry's cologne, light and spicy and so very distinctly Harry. As he stared at her she felt herself begin to lean forward without having made any conscious decision to do so; before she realized what was happening, she had kissed him on the cheek.

"You're a good man, Harry Pearce," she murmured, but before she allowed herself to fall too far she pulled away, gathering up their plates and shuffling them all off to the sink. She felt the weight of his gaze on her back as she did so, but she was determined not to look at him; _not now, not yet,_ she told herself firmly. It wouldn't do, to fling herself into Harry's arms like some romance novel damsel at the first sign of kindness from him, no matter how appealing that prospect might be.

Harry did not seem as ready as she to let the moment pass, however.

* * *

He couldn't let her go. Not now, not after everything. Yes, she'd pulled away from him, and yes, he'd promised himself he wouldn't push her, but he could see the yearning in her eyes, could feel the heat of her touch, could still feel his skin tingling where she'd kissed him. Damn the consequences, and damn his pride, and damn their fear.

Ruth was trying to keep busy, trying to find some way to distract herself, and Harry knew he had to act, now, had to somehow make her see that things weren't quite as complicated as she no doubt thought they were. And he had to do it quickly, before Will came back in the room.

With trembling hands he reached out, and relieved Ruth of the dishes she held. He felt her tense beside him, felt the frisson of heat that passed between them when the tips of his fingers brushed against her skin.

"Ruth," he said her name in a voice low and thick with yearning, and as he watched her shoulders tensed, her whole body wound tight as a spring.

There was nothing for it now; he had crossed the kitchen with a purpose and he had every intention of following through. He reached out, and cupped her chin in his hand, gently turning her to face him in much the same way he had that night after their date, when she had been too busy blushing and staring at her toes to look at him. The move had worked for him once before; he could only hope that it would work again.

Her eyes landed on his face, and the breath was stolen from his lungs as he saw his own desperate need, his own fervent longing reflected back at him from the depths of her glorious eyes.

There was no elegance in it; she wrapped one hand around the back of his neck and he slung one arm around her waist, drawing her impossibly closer as their lips crashed together and his entire world erupted into a joyous cacophony of lust and love and light.

 _Christ_ but she felt good, the press of her body against his own urgent and insistent as she molded herself to him, her every curve sliding into place, nestling in close against the hard lines of his body. He was powerless to resist, caught beneath the deluge of her; his hands slid over her back, mapping the topography of her body the way he had dreamt of doing for years now, his tongue brushing against her lips until she opened herself to him and he fell that much further into her. He could feel the press of her nails, scraping along the back of his neck, sending shivers down his spine as with her other hand she clutched his hip and dragged him with her back against the sink, looking for something solid to beach themselves upon.

The world faded away as he kissed her; time itself seemed to stop, and all he knew was her, the scent of her, the taste of her, the way she whimpered, just a little, when he caught her bottom lip between his teeth. _Too fast, too fast,_ a voice whispered in the back of his mind, but he ignored it, dragging both of his hands down her back to cup her ass, squeezing lightly the way he had wanted to do from the moment he first saw her in those jeans. For his efforts he was rewarded with another little whimper and the thrusting of her hips against his own, the warmth radiating off of her and the sounds she was making sending a clear message to him, one which had his cock standing proudly to attention and straining for her through his trousers. He tightened his hold on her, and hoisted her up so that she was sitting on the counter beside the sink, all thoughts of propriety and patience forgotten now that he held her.

The change in position brought their faces onto the same level; still she kissed him, locking her legs around his waist and drawing him closer still, holding his face in her hands as she pressed forward, her tongue invading his mouth, tangling with his own, nearly driving him mad with want of her.

"Mum?" Will called from the hallway.

Their moment of mindless, reckless abandon was shattered in an instant, and the hands which had previously been rucking up the back of his shirt now pushed him forcefully away as Ruth all but vaulted off the countertop, breathing like a bellows and blushing furiously.

"What is it, love?" she called back.

Harry coughed and turned his back on the room, trying to pull himself back under control. He couldn't believe he'd _done_ that; _Christ,_ _what must she think of me?_ He wondered. He'd very nearly had her there and then, on the kitchen counter, with her son in the next room. It was madness, and part of him was deeply ashamed. Another, much more vocal part of him remembered the way she'd wrapped her legs around him and pulled his hardness in close between her legs; whatever she thought of him, she'd been as eager as he was, a fact for which he was profoundly grateful.

"That was Paul," Will said as he came sauntering back in the kitchen. If he found it odd, that Harry was standing by the sink clutching the countertop with white knuckles and his mother's face was brick red and her breathing labored, he did not comment on it. "He wants me to meet him for a pint."

 _I'm beginning to think there is a god,_ Harry thought.

"Can I go?"

"H-Harry?" Ruth stammered. "Is it…do you think it's safe, for Will to be out on his own?"

Harry nodded, and with some effort unstuck his tongue from the roof of his mouth. "Yes. We're monitoring the situation closely but we have no reason to believe that there's any threat to him." He hoped he sounded more steady and in control of himself than he felt.

As Ruth fussed over her son and extracted a series of promises from him – that he wouldn't stay out too late and that he would take a taxi back and that he would ring her if he needed anything – Harry was counting backwards in his head, trying valiantly to find something banal and uninteresting to focus on, to bring the traitorous clamoring of his body to heel. Eventually, though, Ruth seemed satisfied. She bid Will a fond farewell, and Harry finally felt it was safe to turn away from the sink.

"Have fun," he said to Will.

Will grinned at him. "You, too," he said with a cheeky wink. Thankfully, Ruth was once more staring at her toes, and she missed that particular part of the exchange. Before Harry even realized what had happened, Will bounced out of the room, his expression gleeful, and the front door slammed closed behind him.

There was a stunning sort of silence in his absence, as Harry stared at Ruth, and Ruth stared at Harry.

 _Alone at last,_ he thought.


	50. Chapter 50

**A/N: This chapter comes with an M warning.**

* * *

Ruth was trembling, as she stared at Harry; she couldn't help it. His kiss had set fire to her very soul, had left her every nerve tingling, and she felt the desperate pull of his body, dragging her ever nearer to him. Still, though, she resisted, her feet planted firmly on the floor in the middle of the kitchen, her thoughts a chaotic jumble she could not fathom.

It was so unlike her to jump without looking, to throw herself so unashamedly into intimacy the way she had done only a moment before. She was a trifle embarrassed, to be honest, somewhat ashamed of the way she had given all of herself to Harry without a moment's hesitation, wanton and earnest and completely without reservation. _What must he think of me?_ she wondered as she watched him, watched the steady rise and fall of his chest, watched his dark eyes focused intently on her. Nothing about this was light-hearted or flippant; she had told him days ago that she loved him, had sat before him in a derelict warehouse and spilled the secrets of her heart to him, and she hoped that he could understand that there was not another man on earth who could have inspired such a reaction from her with only a kiss.

Usually it was the endless churning of Ruth's thoughts that stopped her short of reaching out and taking what she wanted, that made physical connection like the one she had shared with Harry there against the sink all but impossible for her. Her mind would wander, would consider every possible ramification for every action, would be overcome by anxiety, by the all-too familiar sense that she was insufficient in every way, that her affections were clumsy and most certainty disappointing to her partner. With Harry, though, when he'd kissed her she'd stopped thinking, stopped worrying, damn near stopped breathing as her mind took a backseat to the yearning of her body.

It was a feeling unlike any she had ever known, a feeling she very much wanted to experience again.

Will's untimely interruption, however, had given her just enough of a reprieve to bring her body back under her control, and the doubts and the fears began to fester in her mind once more. Had she overplayed her hand, revealed her wants too early, had her affections painted her as desperate and clingy? Could he possibly want her, possibly need her, possibly feel as much for her as she felt for him? And, oh, Christ, how was she ever going to explain this to Will? The questions swirled through her mind. _What is he thinking now?_ she wondered, watching him take a single tentative step towards her, approaching her as a hunter might pursue a deer, careful not to make any sudden movements, careful not to make a sound lest she spook and run.

 _This is madness,_ she thought.

There was no other word for it, no other descriptor that could so completely encapsulate the feeling of reckless, thoughtless abandon that had thrust her into his arms. It was surreal to her, impossible to imagine that it could have happened at all, that Harry's hands could have so blatantly traversed her body, could have so easily lifted her up onto the counter, that Harry's tongue had been in her mouth, that her thighs had locked around his waist and ground her tender heat against his hardness through their clothing.

It was madness, to think that they could so easily set aside their past, that she could without a second thought disregard a lifetime of fearful abstinence in the face of lust and love and a thousand unspoken emotions. It was madness, and she wanted, very much, to do it again.

"Harry," she breathed, hardly daring to blink, unwilling to take her eyes off him for even a second. As she prevaricated and doubted and caught her bottom lip between her teeth he had continued to move towards her, and as she spoke his name he finally reached her.

"I'm sorry," his whispered, his voice a deep, rumbling growl.

She opened her mouth to protest, to tell him that he had nothing to be sorry for, but before she could speak a single word he had taken hold of her once more, and once more he was kissing her with everything he had.

It was, if possible, even more electric, even more all-consuming, even more spine-tinglingly erotic than the first time. With one hand splayed possessively on the small of her back he pulled her towards him, the touch of his hand guiding her body into a graceful arch, pressing every inch of her against him. With the other he cupped her cheek, directed her to him, held her in place while his lips and his teeth and his tongue stole the breath from her lungs and elicited from her a low, needy, keening sort of sound, a sound she had never made before, as she trembled and melted all around him. Never in her life had she experienced a kiss quite like this one, as dazzling in its intensity, as heady in its promise, a kiss that somehow managed to do the impossible, and stop the riot of her thoughts.

Her hands had moved, too, as he continued the endless onslaught, as she strove to slide herself further into the circle of his arms, to bury herself beneath his skin and never leave. She curled her fingers into his cloth-covered shoulders, felt the hard muscle beneath the warm skin, and realized, not for the first time, just how physically imposing he was. He was taller than her – well, technically, just about everyone was taller than her – and his shoulders were broad and his arms were strong enough to lift her easily. She could feel every inch of him, as he curved his body around her, could feel the heat of him, the hardness of him, and the sensation of his closeness left her reeling and desperate for more.

And still he kissed her, still he pushed for more, as his tongue tangled with her own and his lips left her panting and gasping for him. She whimpered, just a little, when he dragged that perfect mouth away from her, let loose a soft sound of dismay that morphed into something else entirely when she felt him pressing hard, heated kisses down the column of her throat.

"I'm sorry," he repeated between kisses. With her left hand she clung to his shoulder, desperately trying to keep herself upright, and with the other she tangled her fingers in his hair and clutched him close against her skin.

 _What the bloody hell is he sorry for?_ She wondered. She couldn't remember, any more.

"Just don't stop," she gasped, the words sliding past her lips just ahead of a gentle, reckless moan as he sank his teeth into the soft skin of her throat, just above her racing pulse, exerting just enough gentle pressure to leave her utterly incapable of speech.

* * *

This was the very definition of pushing too hard, and Harry found he could not care less. He could not find it in him, to give a damn about propriety, to concern himself with patience or with the thought that perhaps there should come a point when he should cease his ravishing of her. She was soft and receptive and eager in his arms, and the taste of her, the scent of her, the sound of her encouraging him on left him powerless to resist.

It had been in his mind to wonder if perhaps she did not want this, if perhaps she had merely been caught off guard before, if perhaps given a moment to think better of it she might ask him for space. She hadn't though; the few minutes they'd spent speaking to Will and trying valiantly to pretend they hadn't just been snogging their hearts out against the sink had given them both time to think, given them both an opportunity to say _no, not now, not tonight,_ if they were so inclined. If she had said _no,_ if she had held him at bay, if she had given him any indication that this was not what she wanted, he would have kept his hands (and his tongue) to himself. When the moment came, when they were alone once more and the silence stretched between them and she had the chance to tell him no, she had only beckoned him on, and had welcomed his kiss with an enthusiasm that left him breathless and hungry for her.

Her whispered command, _don't stop,_ only confirmed for him that she was as invested in this as he, and he took her at her word, and continued to trace the gentle lines of her neck with his lips, while his hands dug in hard to the flesh of her bottom, anchoring her to him as she ground herself forward against his hardness and whimpered in his arms. Every sound she made pushed him nearer the brink; he knew that the kitchen was no place for this, that she deserved a bed and a lifetime of tenderness, of gentle caresses and soft lilting sighs, but he did not have it in him, to tear himself away from the salty sweetness of her skin, to break the connection of their bodies for a single second, let alone the few minutes it would take them to disentangle themselves and mount the stairs.

His body found the answer long before his brain did; he guided her back, searching for something, anything to ground them, and felt the tremor that ran through her when her back connected with the wall. Instinct had taken over, as all conscious thought receded; in the absence of doubt, in the absence of grief, muscle memory and sensation urged him on. It had been five long years, since he'd last slept with a woman, five years during which his nights had been lonely, and his thoughts had been consumed by _her_. By the woman currently running her soft, warm hands across the broad plane of his back beneath his shirt, this woman who was somehow as radiant as the sun and as mysterious as the moon, darkness and light and hope and grace and a thousand other things all at once. Everything was new, with her, every sound, every touch, every fleeting moment fresh and bright and endlessly addicting.

There was no need for thought, no need for planning, no need for worries; as he dragged his tongue along her collarbone he ran one hand down her back to clench her thigh, and he found that she responded to his unspoken suggestion without further prodding, as together they angled themselves so that her leg wrapped around his waist and he was thrusting his throbbing, almost painfully hard cock against her, hampered somewhat by the fact that he was still wearing his trousers and she was still wearing her jeans. _Christ,_ but if it felt this good, just to hold her, just to kiss her, what would it be like to have her naked in his arms? He could think of nothing sweeter.

He needed to feel her skin, to see her, _really_ see her, to know every centimeter of her, to share every piece of himself with her, but if they stayed tangled up together like this much longer he was going to come in his pants, and he'd be absolutely no good to her after he died of embarrassment.

So it was that what little capability for thought remained to him forced him to rally, to pull away from her and the siren song of her warmth, and continue their stumbling progress. He guided her with his hips, his mouth having once more found its home, pressed against her own. He kissed her ardently, fervently, reverently, and she breathlessly matched him with her own insatiable need. Finally, miraculously, they made it to the sitting room, where they collapsed together on her battered old sofa.

This was as far as he could go; Harry didn't possess infinite self-restraint, and he needed to feel her, taste her, all of her, _now_. He rolled her beneath him, taking a moment to stop and simply gaze in awe-struck wonder at her face, flushed and luminous as she smiled up at him. She reached up, cupped his cheek in her hand, her thumb brushing gently against his bottom lip. There was no quiet declaration of feeling, no whispered words passed back and forth between their gasping breaths; there was only her beatific smile, and the answering call of his own battered heart. What need did they have of words? What words could they possibly speak that could ever capture so perfectly what they felt for one another? It seemed to him that they had left the realm of spoken language far behind them, that they had found a way of whispering to one another with their hands and their eyes and their lips, a way of expressing more completely, more succinctly, more truthfully the burdens of their hearts than any mere words could ever hope to do, and so he did not speak.

She ran her thumb along his lip, tracing the shape of him, her eyes reflecting every feeling that coursed through his veins, and so he kissed her skin, softly, tenderly, and then reached beneath him, fumbling between them until he found the hem of her shirt. She sucked in a deep breath, tensed for a moment, and his heart nearly shattered in his chest, as he wondered if perhaps he had read her wrong. It passed quickly, that moment of doubt he saw flash across her face; she was smiling again, and she gave him a shy little nod. Thus encouraged, he helped her shimmy free of her blouse, taking her bra with it. Beneath the soft, pleated folds of her shirt she was just a woman, after all, just flesh and blood, just an endless expanse of soft, smooth skin. He shifted slightly, and lowered himself to her, tracing the curve of her breast with his tongue, his whole body reeling as she arched her back up to meet him, thrusting her hips against his hardness and whimpering, _please._

Harry was still a soldier at heart, and he knew an order when he heard one. He smiled against her skin, and continued his slow, steady exploration of her, drawing ever nearer the tight furled bud of her nipple. When finally he closed his mouth around it and flicked her lightly, teasingly with his tongue, she dragged her nails down his back and moaned, a heart-stoppingly erotic noise that had him desperate for her all over again.

There was still the barrier of her jeans to be dealt with, and he was still wearing all his clothes, and so while his mouth was busy learning the topography of her chest his hands wove between them, his fingertips tracing gentle patterns across her soft belly, delighting in the way her muscles trembled and jumped beneath his touch. When he reached the waistband of her jeans he did not linger; he released the button from its sheath, lowered the zip, and immediately began to seek out the wetness between her thighs.

Ruth's sofa was old, and mercifully large, big enough that she could lie flat on her back with her knees bent, cradling Harry's body between her legs. This was, he decided, his favorite place in the entire world. In no time at all he was tracing the shape of her dripping folds with his fingertips, each touch of his skin against her own drawing a new, irresistible noise of want from her. Without further consideration he plunged two thick fingers deep inside her welcoming warmth, and she cried out beneath him, bucking hard against his hand, the fluttering of her tight inner walls drawing him deeper and deeper. He sucked hard on her nipple, curled his fingers inside her, and followed the lead of her wildly roiling hips, thrusting again and again until with another shattering cry she came around him, her head pressed back into the corner of the sofa, her fingernails digging into his scalp, painting an image of such transcendent glory that he nearly wept to see it.

* * *

Ruth thought she must have passed out, for a moment; when she came to Harry had divested her of her jeans and her ruined knickers alike, and was laying heavily atop her, pressing gentle kisses into the curve of her breast and looking at her like she was the most precious, the most beautiful thing he'd ever seen in his life. She had never, _ever_ come like that before, had never before managed to divorce herself so completely from her treacherous thoughts and give every piece of herself over to sensation alone.

There was something so right, about being naked beneath him, about feeling every inch of him pressed against her skin, but still she wanted more. Ruth wanted _him_ , wanted him bare and beautiful and exposed to her own wandering hands, her own desperate touch. She reached for him, pulled his face up to her own, and kissed him soundly; while she occupied him with searching lips and tongue she slipped her hands between them and fumbled for his shirt buttons. Harry chuckled against her lips, and raised himself up on his knees, offering her his help unasked as they kissed and laughed and struggled to divest him of his clothes while still touching one another as much as they could.

She wanted everything, and she wanted it now. She wanted to run her hands along the length of his body, wanted to trace the shape of his throbbing cock with her fingertips, wanted to take him in her mouth and hear him moan, wanted him to thrust himself deep inside her and make her lose what little remained of her self-restraint; she wanted all of this, all at once, and she knew in that moment that having him just once would never, could never be enough for her. She wanted everything, every moment, and she felt in the trembling of his hands and the pleasant aftershocks still coursing through her own body that this was only a beginning.

Somehow they managed to coordinate themselves, to peel the many layers of Harry's clothing away until he lay in her arms, smiling and gasping slightly at the sensation of his skin brushing against her own. He was warm and hard and _here_ , with her, tangled up on her sofa, his cock nestled in the crook of her hip, his breath warm on her cheek.

Slowly she dragged her fingertips down the length of his spine, sending a shiver coursing through him as she reached as far as she could; his chest was covered in a sparse blanket of coarse, golden-brown hair that left her tingling as she felt it scratching ever so gently against the tender skin of her breasts. He was magnificent, was Harry; everything about him was so much _more_ , more than she ever imagined, so much better, and she strived in that moment to commit every piece of him to memory.

They did not trouble themselves with words; when he was ready, Harry braced himself on his forearms, his hands cupping the back of her head, holding her in place as he stared down at her with a question in his eyes. Ruth leaned forward, caught his lips in one more searing kiss, and then reached between them, unable to stop the gasp that escaped her when she finally closed her hands around his erection and felt him for the first time. This, too, was more than she had ever thought possible, but she was not afraid of him; however limited her experience in this particular department might have been Harry had shown her tonight that she could trust him with herself, with her body and with her heart, and she did not fear him.

He caught her bottom lip between his teeth and held it there, distracting her somewhat as she guided him into her.

" _Christ,"_ she moaned, unable to keep her silence as he finally, finally, slid home. He was thick and hard and hot and he filled her, fully, completely, deliciously. She threw her head back, her hands clutching his hips as he settled himself inside her; in that moment, she felt herself in danger of flying apart completely, so great was her need and so overwhelming was the feeling of them, together. Harry tenderly kissed her cheek, her jaw, the column of her throat, and then he used the hands still cupping her head to draw her face close to his own. Her eyelids fluttered open, surprised at the movement; the moment her gaze fell on his face he locked his eyes on her own, and she found herself unable to look away. A lazy, satisfied smile colored his features, left him looking younger, more confident than she had ever seen him before.

And then, ever so slowly, he withdrew, pulling almost all the way out of her. Though she whimpered, and dug her fingers hard into his hips, trying to pull him back into her, he would not be deterred. He held her gaze, his dark eyes burning, and he waited, just a moment, left her balanced there on the edge of a knife, desperate for him.

"I love you," he breathed.

"Harry-" she started to speak, but then his smile grew, and he plunged himself back inside her with a powerful thrust of his hips, and whatever words she was about to say vanished in an instant, chased away by the sound of her crying out for him.

* * *

This was bliss, this was paradise, this was perfection, realized; she kept her eyes locked on his face, her hands had flown up from his hips to his back where they dug in as she clung to him for dear life. She was hot and wet and _perfect_ , and he could not tear his eyes away from hers. Onward he moved, plunging into her harder, and faster, and with every needy, hopelessly erotic sound she made he found himself falling deeper and deeper under her spell. She locked her legs around his waist, the heels of her feet pressing into his bottom, encouraging him, calling him on. Ruth was, without a doubt, the single most responsive partner he had ever had; he had no need to ask her how she was faring, what she liked. She told him without words, in the flutter of her eyelids, in the hoarseness of her moans, in the bucking of her hips, just what she wanted from him. And he was more than happy to give it to her; he had never in his life wanted a woman this badly. In that moment, as he sank himself inside her again and again, he felt that if he had to stop making love to her he might surely die, so great was his yearning for her.

This was what he had been waiting for, all his life. This love, this union so perfect in its imperfection, this complete and utter surrender was unlike anything he had ever known, and he knew, knew by the look in her eyes, by the ragged, desperate sound of her breathing, knew by the marks she was leaving on his back, that this would not be the last time. It was that knowledge that kept him from losing his head completely, kept him moving sure and steady. Yes, the sofa was not the most romantic setting, and yes the circumstances that had led them to this point were truly horrific, but there was beauty in this, in this coming together after so long apart, in this joining of their bodies after having shared the truth of their hearts with one another. He wanted her, every piece of her, but more than that, he wanted to give himself to her, and so he did.

On he moved, pushing her ever nearer the brink; he saw her eyelids flutter, saw the rosy blush spreading from her perfect breasts up towards the slender column of her throat, and he knew that she was close. He braced himself on one arm, and used his free hand to search through her raspy curls until he found what he was searching for. As he thrust into her he rubbed her clit, over and over, searching for just the right rhythm, just the right pressure, that would send her spiraling into oblivion.

And then he found it, and she broke around him with a wail, her arms clutching him to her fiercely, her legs locked tight around his waist, her tight inner muscles clenching him over and over until he could hold back no more, and with a roar he followed her over the edge, shooting hot and wet deep inside her.

* * *

When Harry came back to his senses they had shifted somewhat; he was lying on his side, his back braced against the back of the couch, Ruth curled in his arms. Her legs were tangled with his, her arm was draped around his waist, and her nose was pressed into the soft skin of his throat. The mindless urgency had left them, and in its place he found only a bone-deep sense of contentment. Her hair tickled his nose, and the softness of her skin warmed him through and through.

"I didn't mean to do that," he murmured. He felt he had to say it, felt he needed to reassure her that however mind-blowing it had been, he had not come here with sex on his mind. Or, at least, not _only_ sex.

"Didn't you?" she asked, tilting her head back to look at him, her blue eyes soft and uncertain, and he realized how incredibly foolish it was, to say such a thing to Ruth, when she was lying naked in his arms.

"Christ, of course I did, and I want to do it again, at the first possible opportunity," he corrected himself quickly, watching as a slow smile bloomed across her face. "I only meant-"

"I know what you meant," she interrupted him, raising herself up enough to brush his lips with her own. She collapsed back against him, and he held her that much tighter, pulled her in as close as he could manage.

It occurred to him that he had, rather foolishly, declared his love for her in the heat of the moment; if he hadn't been so bloody tired, he might have worried about what effect that confession would have on her, on _them_. As it was, though, he was too exhausted to worry.

"We should move," she said softly.

He hummed; he knew she was right. Will would come home, eventually, and it wouldn't do for him to find the pair of them naked and sweaty and blissfully post-coital on the sofa. Still though, he did not release his hold on her; perhaps they _should_ move, but he wasn't entirely sure that he _could,_ and even if he somehow managed that feat, the thought of being away from her, even for a moment, was intolerable.

"Stay with me?" she asked, her face still nestled in close against his skin.

Harry smiled.

"Always," he answered.


	51. Chapter 51

It was very late, when Will came stumbling home. He had promised his mother he would take a taxi back from the pub, and so he did, much as it galled him to pay for it when he could have just as easily taken the bus. She'd been back in his life for barely three days, and he was still so grateful to have her back that he was willing to do whatever she asked of him, no matter how trivial her requests seemed.

As he shuffled through the door, Will smiled a little to himself, remembering a night two years ago when he'd taken a taxi home from the pub, stinking drunk and weeping for his mum. His whole life changed, that night; for a few terrible hours he'd believed her to be dead, believed that he had lost the only family he'd ever really had. That grief was like nothing he had ever felt before, nothing he ever wanted to experience again. It was as if part of him had been ripped away; perhaps that was a bit dramatic, he thought, but she had been the center of his life from the day he was born, the only constant in a sea of uncertainty. She had kept him grounded, made him feel safe, reminded him that even in times of sorrow there was still love and hope and joy to be found. That night, so hazy in his memory, had ended in a spectacularly bizarre fashion; he'd woken to the sight of Harry Pearce looming over him, intimidating and terrifying despite the bemused expression on his face.

Not for the first time he wondered what might have happened, had he never met Harry. Had he never learned that his mum was really alive, had he been forced to endure two years believing she was gone, believing he was alone, believing that there was no one else in the world who loved her, who grieved for her as he had done.

That was a reality he would never have to face; Harry had been by his side, through triumphs and heartbreaks, every step of the way. And he was grateful to the man, for his steady companionship, for placing his trust in a boy he barely knew. They had made a good many memories over the years, the pair of them, and they had come to be fast friends.

It was strange, now that his mum was back, strange seeing her talk to Harry, seeing her smile at him. He'd never really had an opportunity to see her like that before, to see her as a person, and not just his mum. And he knew what he was seeing, when he watched her talking with Harry; right before his eyes, he was watching her fall in love with him all over again. Perhaps, as her only son, as a young man who for the last twenty-three years had been the only man in her life, he ought to have felt a bit jealous, a bit concerned by the way she so readily opened her heart and her home to this man. Perhaps if he had not been given the chance to get to know Harry first, if Harry and everything that went with him had just been thrust upon Will without warning, he might have reacted differently. As it was, he found that he felt only happiness, when he thought about her and Harry together. Harry was a good man, a kind man, and Will didn't mind making room in his life for him.

As he toed off his shoes in the front hall, Will caught sight of Harry's coat, still hanging there on the hook by the door, its sleeve tangled up beneath his mother's coat.

That shocked him, more than he thought it would. For a long moment he simply stood and stared at that coat, thinking about all the implications of Harry's coat hanging in the hall, this late at night, when the doors were locked and the lights were off. It was far too cold for Harry to have run off without it; if his coat were still here, then he must be, too.

It was to be expected, he knew, that something like this might happen eventually. They were fond of one another, Harry and his mum; more than fond, to be honest. And Will had been trying, in his own ham-handed way, to force them into a situation where they could be alone together, where they would have no choice but to talk to one another. The prospect of Harry eventually staying the night had seemed inevitable, really.

Only Will hadn't realized that it would happen so _soon._ The coat had ceased to be a coat at all, and became to his mind a swirling maelstrom of innuendo. He tried very hard not to think about what they were doing, Harry and his mum, or what they had done, or…whatever. He wondered if he ought to be worried, that this… _whatever_ had happened so soon after her return, so soon after George had died. Will knew Harry, knew him well, and knew that he was not the sort of man who would take advantage, who would tumble into bed with Ruth at the first opportunity and run like the devil in the morning. And he knew his mum, too, knew that she did not give her heart away lightly, and that it had been far too long since she'd last had any sort of romance in her life. Perhaps it wasn't anything to worry about; perhaps they'd just realized, after two long years of separation, that they weren't willing to wait any more.

That was about as much consideration as he cared to give the present circumstances; thinking of his mother and Harry in such a way was deeply uncomfortable, and the sheer volume of alcohol he'd consumed that evening threatened to make a reappearance should he continue in that vein. He gave his head a little shake, and made his way up the stairs as quietly as he could.

Will smiled, just a little, when he reached the landing, and saw the moggies curled up outside his mother's door, looking a bit peevish about their having been locked out of their favorite sleeping place. He gave the big one, Fidget, a little scratch behind the ears, and then promptly scampered off to his own room when he realized the potential for disaster inherent in his standing around outside his mother's door when he knew Harry was inside. It was awfully late, and surely they were sleeping, but if they _weren't,_ he desperately did not want to hear what they were getting up to.

* * *

When Harry woke the next morning, he was warm and blissfully happy. Ruth had draped herself over him like a blanket in the night; her head rested peacefully on his chest, just above his heart, her arm slung out over his stomach, her legs tangled with his beneath the duvet. He had been impulsive, and perhaps a bit foolish, in pursuing her so ardently the night before, right on the heels of all that she had suffered, but he did not have it in him to regret a single moment of the time he'd spent in her arms. He could feel the scratches she'd left on his back, could still smell her on his fingers when he reached up to rub the sleep away from his eyes, and his heart felt full to bursting with love of this woman.

He knew that soon he would have to move. The sun had risen, and though he did not have to go into work, there were things he would need to attend to. Breakfast, for one. He could linger for a while longer, though, and so he did, watching the light playing across her shining chestnut hair, watching the steady rise and fall of her chest in time to her gentle breathing. He watched her, and he considered all that had passed between them, in the years they'd known one another and the years they'd spent apart.

The time for waiting had long since passed him by. He had wondered, briefly, if upon her return Ruth might be indelibly changed, if he might find that their paths had diverged so completely that no hope of rekindling their budding romance would remain to them. And in some ways she had changed; she was bolder, more prone to speaking her thoughts aloud, more willing to chase after the desires of her heart. She was sadder, in a way, glorious even in her wounding. In her heart, though, she was still Ruth. She was still passionate and gentle, still kind and strong, still stubborn, still lovely. It was in his mind to worry that perhaps she might have found him changed as well, and not for the good; while she had been away he had endured hardships and loss and felt the pieces of his heart turning brittle and sharp in his chest. Still, though, she had welcomed him, into her home, into her heart, into her bed. She had touched him with reverence, with wonder, with affection of a kind he had never known before. Perhaps they were both of them different people, from those who had bid each other a bitter farewell by the riverside two years before, but the people who had risen from the ashes of their heartbreak were still just as fiercely in love as those two sorry souls had been.

In his arms Ruth began to stir, and he smiled to see it, to watch the muscles shifting along the smooth plane of her back, to see her thick eyelashes fluttering across her porcelain cheeks. She was a masterpiece, a Bernini sculpture come to life before him, and he was spellbound by her, as always. When finally her ocean-blue eyes opened and fell upon his face his smile grew, and he leaned forward to press a gentle kiss to her forehead.

"Good morning," he murmured in a voice rough from sleep.

"Good morning," she answered softly.

As she woke she hid her face from him, ducking her head and taking several deep, steadying breaths. This sudden introversion alarmed him; he fancied he could hear the wheels turning in her mind, and he knew that he needed to address whatever was bothering her, now, however much it might grieve him to hear it.

"You're thinking awfully loudly," he told her, keeping his voice low, not wanting to startle or overwhelm her.

"Oh, Harry," she sighed sadly. He didn't like the sound of that. The only time the words _Oh, Harry_ ever heralded good news was when they were spoken in the midst of orgasm. The rest of the time, they were only a portent of trouble to come.

"I can't help thinking," she continued, and his heart ached to hear such sorrow in her sweet, soft voice. "Is it wrong of me, to be so happy, after everything that's happened? Do we deserve this, you and I?"

Once again he was surprised by the sheer complexity of her mind, by all the twists and turns and myriad pitfalls that comprised her conscience. It had never once occurred to him, to wonder if they _deserved_ one another; his only thoughts had been of how good they felt together, how much he had longed for her, how happy she seemed to be in his arms. He wasn't sure that it had anything to do with what they _deserved,_ and he told her so.

"I think," he said slowly, "that no one gets what they deserve. Bad things happen to good people. People live, people die, people hurt one another. That's life." He tightened his hold on her, pulled her closer still. "I've done things I'm not proud of. I've hurt people. But I love you, Ruth. I love you, and you-" here he faltered but, as always, she was there to pick up the thread.

"And I love you, too, you stupid man," she said, turning her face up to smile at him through a thin veil of tears.

"And you love me," he said, beaming down at her. He couldn't help himself; despite the serious nature of their discussion, hearing those words from her lips had left him giddy as a teenager. "And that's what matters, I think."

Ruth pressed her body forward to give him a proper kiss, a kiss that sent shockwaves through him and had his cock hard and straining for her in a moment. He held himself back, knowing that in all likelihood her son was sleeping just down the hall, and knowing that she would frown upon engaging on any sorts of… _shenanigans_ under those circumstances. He was content just to kiss her, just to share her warmth and her bed, to bask in the warm glow of her radiance.

"I'm glad you're here," she whispered when she pulled away, blushing just a little and lowering her gaze from his face in a bashful sort of way. Harry reached out and caught her chin in his hand, lifted her back up to look upon him once more. The time for shyness and obfuscation was long gone, he thought; he wanted her to be brave, wanted her to be bold, wanted her to be comfortable with him, as he was with her.

"So am I," he told her, smiling.

Ruth kissed him again, and then laid her head once more on his chest, listening to the steady thrumming of his heart. As they reclined together, at ease for once, without any burdens, without any secrets, without any impending disasters looming on the horizon, he lazily dragged his fingers up and down the path of her spine, delighting in the shivers his touch elicited in her.

"Would you like something to eat?" he asked her after a time. Harry would have been content to lie with her like that all day, but he thought he ought to at least extend the offer.

She propped herself up on her elbows, smiling. "Seeing as we're in my house," she said in a playful tone of voice, "shouldn't I be the one offering you breakfast?"

Playful Ruth was a delicious, deliriously beautiful sight, and Harry found his cheeks were beginning to ache from the smile that seemed permanently plastered on his face.

"I've been told I know my way around the kitchen," he answered, lifting an insinuating eyebrow at her.

Ruth promptly collapsed in a fit of giggles, and he held her close, chuckling, relieved and nearly overjoyed to hear the sound of her laughter once more.

"Breakfast would be lovely," she told him once she regained her composure.

"Consider it done," he said. He kissed her once more, and then pulled himself away from her side, shuffled into his clothes, and made his way downstairs.

* * *

Will made his way downstairs, feeling that a cup of tea was in order. He had a pounding in his head, courtesy of the drinks from the night before, and though he'd intended to have a shower first he'd woken to the sounds of the pipes in his mother's bathroom banging. The house was old, and running two showers at once was a recipe for disaster. He knew he'd have to wait, and in the absence of a shower, tea seemed like the next best thing.

When he reached the kitchen he stopped for a moment; Harry was already up and puttering around, skirting around the cats and whistling contentedly to himself. He was still wearing the same clothes from yesterday, looking a little the worse for wear, but he seemed happy enough.

 _It's too early for this,_ Will thought, running his fingers through his hair. He was pleased for them, really he was, but he absolutely did not want to have a conversation about what Harry was doing in his mother's kitchen at this time of the morning.

He wanted tea, though, and to get it, he'd have to speak to the man. Will squared his shoulders, and made his presence known.

"Good morning," he said as he made a beeline for the kettle.

"Good morning, Will," Harry answered.

Though Will had expected this particular exchange to be excruciating in its awkwardness, he found himself rather pleasantly surprised. Harry was cooking bacon and eggs and the kettle was still warm. The whistling was grating on his nerves; his head was feeling a bit tender this morning, and he did not share Harry's chipper mood.

"Your mum's in the shower," Harry told him as he leaned back against the sink, cradling his mug in his hands. "She'll be down in a bit. There's plenty to go around, if you're hungry."

The tips of Harry's ears had turned pink but he gave no other outward sign of discomfort. Will realized it was up to him, to determine how this morning would go; he could raise the issue, address the elephant in the room and make everyone terribly uncomfortable, or he could relax, and eat his breakfast with the pair of them the way he had done earlier in the week.

"I could do with some breakfast," he said, and watched as Harry smiled.

"Bacon?" Harry asked him, slapping a few more pieces down on the hot pan.

"Bacon," Will agreed.

* * *

Ruth had to give herself a bit of a pep-talk, before she felt brave enough to enter the kitchen. As she'd descended the stairs she had clearly heard Will and Harry speaking to one another, although she could not discern the words. It was unavoidable, really, facing Will, knowing that _he_ knew that Harry had spent the night. She wouldn't have been able to hide it, even if she'd wanted to, but still, the reality of having that particular conversation with her son was galling. They'd always shared so much with one another, but Ruth was inexperienced when it came to the technicalities of navigating both her relationship with her son and her relationship with the man she loved. No man had ever meant as much to her as Harry did, but no matter how she might love him, Will had to come first. What if Will was upset, to find that Harry was still here, that he had shared her bed? What would she do? It was a completely distressing thought. She had no reason to think that Will be cross but still, she fretted.

 _Come on, you can do this,_ she told herself, and so, taking a deep breath, she walked into the kitchen.

Will was sitting at the table, his hair a terrible mess and his eyes looking a bit bloodshot, tucking into a plateful of bacon and eggs. Harry was manning his post by the cooktop, whistling. It was simultaneously blissfully domestic and completely foreign to her, this morning-after breakfast scene.

"Good morning," she said softly, going over to drop a kiss on her son's cheek. "Did you have fun last night?"

Will nodded, gave her a little smile. "I did. It was good to see Paul, it's been too long." He did not ask her how her night had gone, for which she was very thankful.

"Tea?" Harry asked her, motioning towards a mug on the counter, already poured and ready to go.

 _He really is a wonderful man_ , she thought as she crossed the kitchen to fetch her drink.

"Breakfast is nearly ready, I'll bring it to you in just a moment," Harry told her.

Impulsively Ruth leaned forward, and kissed his cheek, too.

"Thank you," she murmured, hoping he understood, that he could see she wasn't just thanking him for the food and the tea, but for the way he was helping her navigate these uncharted waters, for the way he'd made things easier for all of them.

This was right, she thought as she sat at the table, sipping her tea and watching her son fondly, fighting the urge to reach out and tousle his hair and chide him about it for the thousandth time. For so long she had been adrift, struggling through the world on her own, with no one to help her shoulder her burdens, no one to confide in when she was afraid, no one to comfort her, no one to love. For so long she had believed that she had to do everything on her own, that she could not trust anyone else with the secrets of her heart. She knew better now, though. They had been bound together through grief and pain, she and Harry, but there was no one else in the world who understood her as he did, no one else who could make her feel as safe, as cherished, as peaceful as she did when he held her.

And he had made room in his heart not just for her, but for her son. Maybe one day the past would come back to haunt them; there was blood on their hands, both of their hands. There was a man called George, and a man called Davie King, and Ruth knew that the day might well come when there would have to be a reckoning.

She remembered the words had spoken to her that morning, though, and she held them close to her heart, clutched them as a talisman to ward off the terrors of the dark. She loved him, and he loved her, and perhaps that was enough. Perhaps that was all they'd ever really needed.

* * *

 **A/N: Thank you, for sticking with this story! I have very much enjoyed writing it, and I am grateful to all of you for reading, and reviewing, and generally supporting me throughout. Just an epilogue to go now. I think.**


	52. Chapter 52

"There, that's sorted," Will said, flashing Harry a triumphant little grin as he stepped away. Harry reached up to readjust his tie once more, but Will batted his hand away. "Stop fidgeting," he chided the old man gently. "I just got it straight. Leave it alone."

"It doesn't feel right," Harry complained.

"It's fine. You're just nervous."

Harry muttered something unintelligible under his breath and turned away, stalking around the room once more like a panther trapped in a cage, plotting his escape.

Will watched him with a fond smile on his face, crossing his arms and leaning back against the wall. It was funny, really, to see a man like Harry Pearce, a soldier, a spy, a killer, practically vibrating with nerves over something as trivial as a wedding. Sure, it was _his_ wedding, and there had been moments when everyone involved quietly feared it would never come to pass, but they'd made it this far. They'd made it through Ruth's bumpy re-entry into her life in London and through Harry's rather messy retirement, through surprises and arguments and a year's worth of breakfasts.

The time had passed quickly, for Will. He'd decided after some deliberation to open up a bookshop of his own. With some help from Harry, who had sold his home in London and decamped to Ruth's little house to live full time, and a loan from the bank, he'd managed to take out a lease on a little storefront in Bethnal Green. He'd gone into business with his mate Mark, who'd lived with him while they were at university together. Mark sold coffee and bread and biscuits, and Will sold books, and chatted to a pretty girl with pink hair who had stopped by every morning for the last six weeks running. He was slowly working up the courage to ask her out for a pint.

Ruth had decided against going back to Five. It had been an agonizing decision for her, he knew, but in the end, she'd told him quietly that the sacrifices that job required of her were more than she was willing to pay. He knew what she was thinking, how she was remembering the pain of her exile, and the trauma of her return, and he could understand how she'd come to that conclusion. He couldn't help but wonder if sometimes when she looked at Harry she saw George, if she recalled the fate that poor man had suffered and wanted something better for Harry, for herself.

Once Ruth's decision had been made, word had come down from on high; the powers that be told Harry in no uncertain terms that he was no longer allowed to see her, so long as he worked for Five and she didn't. Though Will had obviously not been privy to that particular conversation Jo told him later that Harry had exploded in a spectacular fashion. Once everyone's tempers had cooled (and the Director General's ears had stopped ringing) Harry had turned in his notice. Those three months had involved quite a bit of sneaking around, on Harry's part; his bosses at Five, no doubt recalling the vitriol he had spewed at them and stewing quietly over their bruised egos, had set men to watching him, with the intention of catching him in the act of visiting Ruth. Had they done so, he would have been summarily dismissed without his pension. In the end, though, it turned out Harry was an even better spy than Will had originally thought. Though a surveillance team had remained in place in front of Ruth's little house for the duration of Harry's tenure at Five, and though Harry spent most nights sleeping there, no word of it ever reached the sharks circling him. Will had his suspicions; Jo had intimated to him that most of the agents working in Thames House, including Malcolm, were very much on Harry's side. It was a rather romantic story, this tale of Harry and Ruth falling apart and coming back together, willing to sacrifice everything just to be together, and he imagined that that sort of thing appealed to the spooks, who were all frustrated actors at heart.

His mum had started teaching history at a local school, and Harry had started grumbling about retirement. They were working through it, trying to learn how to be together without the fate of the nation hanging in the balance, but all in all Will thought they had done a fine job.

Last Christmas, Harry had asked Ruth to marry him. Will thought it a bit clichéd, the way Harry had dropped to one knee on Christmas morning and produced a little box from his trouser pocket, but Ruth had agreed in an instant, and kissed him so fiercely that Will had been forced to clear his throat obnoxiously in order to remind them that they had company, and that it wouldn't do for them to start shagging on the sofa.

And now they were here, Harry and Will standing in a little room at the back of a church, waiting for someone to tell them it was time to go. Out of necessity, Harry and Ruth had decided to get married in a little village well outside the city; the guest list consisted of a mix of current and former spooks, some of whom were supposed to be dead, and they weren't taking any chances. It had all been very cloak-and-dagger; messages passed through dead drops and encrypted email accounts, arranging which guests would stay at which hotel, who would drive with whom, which legends would be used and how much alcohol was needed to get them all through the day's festivities. His mum had very nearly had a nervous breakdown over one particular guest who would be flying in from Chile; apparently that one had caused more trouble than all the others combined, though she did not share the details with Will.

Catherine had been a great help; she was six months pregnant, and in the midst of planning her own wedding. She and Fabian had decided to take the year off from their documentary work; it wouldn't do, she'd said, to be running around Syria while she was pregnant, a sentiment with which her father had heartily agreed. As she'd suddenly found herself with rather a lot of time on her hands (and Fabian underfoot at all hours of the day and night) she had thrown herself into wedding plans, spending many a Saturday morning sitting at the kitchen table with Ruth, discussing things like flowers and food and whether or not they ought to institute a rule that all guests must check their weapons at the door.

There had been no word from Harry's wayward son Graham, and this bothered Will more than a little. He knew, from his conversations with Catherine, that Harry had not been around much for his children, and that both of them had resented his absence in their lives. This knowledge had come as a shock to Will, who had only known Harry to be kind and attentive and wonderfully selfless, when it came to his treatment of Will and his mum. He'd said as much to Catherine, and she'd just smiled sadly and told him that some people take longer than others to mature. Harry had been young and reckless, when his children were little, but now he was much more settled, and everyone in his life was better off for it. Catherine was trying to talk her brother round, and Will wished her well in that endeavor. Harry deserved a second chance, to be a father to his son, the way he had been to Will.

Someone knocked gently on the door; it swung open to reveal Catherine, smiling and radiant in a soft blue dress that showed off the curve of her growing belly. When Harry caught sight of her, his face softened the way it always did when he looked at his daughter, the look of a man who has finally found happiness after a lifetime of sorrow.

"Time to go," Catherine said.

Harry squared his shoulders, and followed her out of the room, Will hot on his heels.

"Are you ready, dad?" Catherine asked him as they made their way towards the chapel.

"I was ready three years ago," he told her softly. Will wasn't certain, but he thought he could see a sheen of tears in Catherine's eyes as she leaned forward on her tiptoes and kissed her father's cheek.

"Go on," she told him. "I'm going to fetch Ruth. We'll be along in a moment."

"Right, then," Harry said. His eyes were somewhat wild, as he and Will passed through a little door and took up their positions at the front of the chapel.

The guests had already assembled. He could easily pick out Jo and Ros and Malcolm, sitting together at the front of the church with a dark haired man Will did not recognize. Little Wes was sitting with his grandparents, and he waved enthusiastically at Will, who returned the gesture gleefully. There were people he did not recognize; a blonde-haired girl with an impish smile was sitting with a handsome man wearing a stony expression. Squeezed in beside them was a little family, a mother and father and two small boys. Will recognized the woman; these were the visitors from Chile who had caused his mum so much aggravation. His mum's friends – some she'd sung in choir with, and some she'd known in Cheltenham - were sitting on the other side of the chapel, eyeing their fellow guests with open interest. There were others, more people he did not know, but whom he assumed he would be introduced to at the party scheduled for later in the evening.

Then the music began to play, and the guests shuffled dutifully to their feet.

Catherine entered first, regal and demure, holding a small bouquet of delicate white flowers. She made her stately way down the aisle, and then took up her post, standing across from Will and Harry. She caught Will's eye, and promptly stuck her tongue out at him.

And then the music changed, and Ruth herself appeared in the doorway at the back of the little church. Beside him, Will heard Harry suck in his breath sharply at the sight of her. She wore a simple white dress, and the flowers she carried were pink, and the smile plastered on her face was the most beautiful thing Will had ever seen in his life.

Afterwards, he wouldn't be able to recall much about the ceremony itself. He'd always found that sort of thing to be desperately boring, and though he was really pleased for Harry and his mum, he was ready to get on with the drinking and dancing portion of the evening. Through it all, though, he watched his mum, watched her saying the words in her quiet little voice, watched the way her eyes kept flickering to Harry's face, the way she couldn't seem to stop smiling. This was right, he thought. After everything she'd been through, everything she'd suffered, Ruth had finally found happiness. And Will, well, Will finally had a family. He could think of nothing better.

* * *

 **A/N: Sorry for the descent into fluffy nonsense, I simply couldn't help myself. Merry Christmas, everyone!**


End file.
